


Amethyst

by meetmeatthecoda



Series: Facets [2]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, AUs, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, and explore better places for our lovely ship, soulmate aus, where we hide from canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-04-29 12:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14473242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Part 2 of the Facets series. A collection of soulmate AU and various AU prompt-driven mini fics from over on tumblr. Each chapter is a new prompt. Content will vary but ratings should all be T and under. All Lizzington.





	1. Chapter 1

**The voice you hear your thoughts in is your soulmate’s but you don’t know who they are until you hear them speak for the first time.**

It has never changed for Liz. Ever since she was old enough to contemplate it, she has realized that the voice in her head was a man’s. Her man. Her soulmate.

It is a deep thing, full of gravely texture and soft undertones. It is wonderfully expressive, it can be serious or nonchalant, energized or exhausted, changing from day to day, depending on her mood and her thoughts. But one thing always remains the same. 

It is always beautiful.

Sometimes certain words she thinks to herself sound oddly familiar. They remind her of something, a memory, long forgotten and buried, just flickering on the edges of her consciousness like a dream slipping away upon waking. 

But Liz never lingers on it for very long. She can’t remember a time when her thoughts didn’t sound in his voice. So, of course, it sounds familiar.

(And she easily shoves away the strange tinges of darkness and heat and smoke, shouted words of caution and panic, quiet words of soothing. It must have been a dream.)

Liz feels differently about his voice as she grows. When she is young, it is comforting to her, helping her sooth herself when she gets hurt or calm herself when she gets angry. Repeating a mantra of comforting words in her head, the dulcet tones reverberating in her mind, never fails to quiet her.

(His voice means safety and protection and love, second only to Sam’s, whose husky words sound outside her head where they belong.)

As Liz gets older she compares his voice to other men’s, teachers, coaches, random men on the street. She loves to listen in to conversations in coffee shops and restaurants, absorbing the intricacies of other voices and comparing it to the one in her head. 

(None of them come close.)

Liz looks at these other men with their inferior voices and studies their features, using them to try and guess what her soulmate will look like when she finally finds him. Perhaps he’ll have the strong jaw of this man, the capable hands of that man, the self-assuredness of this one, the suaveness of that one. 

Liz knows he is older than her since it’s common knowledge that a soulmate’s voice doesn’t sound in your head until they turn eighteen and vice versa. It is strange for her to think that, while she can hear his voice, he won’t hear hers until she can legally vote. She sometimes wonders if it will be odd to have a soulmate almost twenty years older than her but her only real worry is if they will find each other in time. 

(And the more she thinks about it, the more she likes the idea of an older man. He sounds confident and sexy. There’s nothing wrong with that. And after all, age is just a number.)

As for his physical appearance, Liz thinks that he may be tall and imposing, perhaps dark haired and certainly handsome. Who else could possess such a powerful voice? She wonders what he does for a living, how he uses that voice to its best advantage. He could be a politician or a lawyer, a profession where he can command a room at will, capturing everyone's attention. Yes, her soul mate is impressive, she is sure of it, and she can’t wait to meet him.

(She just has to find him first.)

But she sees nothing wrong with experimenting a little along the way, because everyone does when they're waiting, so why shouldn’t she? So, she has her fair share of fun in college. But by the time she graduates, still alone with the voice in her head, she starts to wonder. What is taking him so long?

(And how long can she be expected to wait for him?) 

And then, as if in answer to all of her desperate yearnings, Tom comes along. While his voice doesn't match the one in her head, he is sweet and kind. A thin, lanky, unassuming, bespectacled grade school teacher, he insists that he doesn't buy into soul mates, doesn't want to wait for his, that high pitched, soft-spoken voice in his head, and he tells Liz he loves her instead. She feels some guilt at not being patient enough to wait for her soulmate but Tom is nothing if not persistent.

She caves within the year. 

Besides, why should she wait the rest of her life for a tall, dark, and handsome stranger when there is a kind man here that is ready to love her now? Because she may never find her soulmate. 

(And she doesn’t want to be alone forever.) 

So, she settles with Tom. They get marry and Liz gets used to being the kind of happy that comes from telling yourself to feel lucky. 

(It's not perfect but it's better than being alone.) 

And it’s two happy-ish years of marriage before Tom meets his soulmate, Jolene, with her big eyes and quiet voice in his head, at some stupid teachers’ conference and that’s the end of her marriage. 

(She's alone again.)

And just when she’s about to give up all hope, resigning herself to the fact that she’ll be alone forever, his voice sounding tantalizingly out of reach in her head, he arrives.

* * *

It's different for Red. Ever since he was old enough to contemplate it, he realized that his thoughts didn’t have a voice. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t think, of course, quite the opposite. His thoughts are just more visceral, consisting of feelings, pictures and colors instead of words. 

(The most frequent shade coloring his inner eye is the most gorgeous shade of blue, light as the ocean waters brightened by the mid-afternoon sun, just hinting at the hidden depths below. It’s his favorite color.)

His situation is not unheard of. There are cases of people born without a voice or those who lose it early, assumed to be signs of their soulmate being born at the wrong time, just missing them, too early or too late. 

It's an unfortunate reality for these people and it has always bothered Red in a second-hand sort of way, the thought of some lonely people with quiet minds wandering the Earth for their whole lives, searching for someone who doesn’t exist. 

(Somehow it never occurred to him that there was every chance he might end up the same way). 

Some quiet people are perfectly happy, though. They find someone like them with no soulmate to speak of and settle down, not bothered by the abstract concept of someone made just for them, happy with someone they’ve found by pure happenstance, living long, wonderful lives together. 

Red is determined to be one of them.

So, when he and Carla meet, two quiets that quite literally run into each other on the street, Red wastes no time in starting a life with her. He tries to do it all the right way, or at least as right as people like them can get it. He gets a good government job and buys a nice house, coming home every day to his lovely wife and, in the dead of night, comforting himself with the fact that no one on the street is able to tell that they aren’t soulmates. And what does it matter what other people think anyway?

(But Red has always been able to see soulmates. He can see the bond between two people, the deep connection and love tying them together, something stronger than mere vows, and it makes his heart sink with the nastiest feeling. He and Carla have never had that.)

They make the best of it though, finding joy in the little things married life can offer, like date night, cooking together and seeing movies.

(It's not perfect but it's better than being alone.) 

What Red doesn’t count on is simply dishonesty. He never occurred to him that Carla may have been lying. So, when she sits him down one day and tells him that she has always had a voice in her head and she’s finally found him, a plain, boring banker, and that Red was only a placeholder accepted in a moment of weakness, Red is both crushed and strangely relieved at the same time. Because Carla wasn’t right for him.

(She’s not his soulmate. But, then again, he doesn’t have one.)

He lets her go with no bitterness or resentment, unable to hate her for wanting to be happy, and resigns himself to a lifetime of silent loneliness. 

And it’s just as well, as the Cabal chooses that time to blow his short-lived, would-be blissful, cookie-cutter life to smithereens, forcing him to descend into a life of crime with the sense that it’s just as well, he deserves as much. 

(But he saves a little girl and a young black man along the way and that gives him a certain sense of purpose. Maybe he doesn’t need a voice in his head to feel loved.)

So, he pursues his life of crime, wallowing in the destruction he leaves behind everywhere he goes, feeling as though he was meant to live this pathetic life. At least he’s good at it. And with no soulmate to worry about, no one to make him vulnerable, he is almost indestructible. 

(Inside, he loathes himself. He must be unlovable, there’s no other explanation. The only person that manages to tolerate him is Dembe, though Red tries to send him home to his soulmate and their daughter Isabella as often as he can get away with it. Dembe shouldn’t have to suffer with him.)

And his life goes on this way until it doesn’t.

Because at 4:53pm on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of October, smack in the middle of a meeting in Istanbul, everything changes. It’s then that, with no preamble at all, a clear, vibrant voice suddenly sounds like a bell in his head. 

(It’s her.)

Red sits there, stunned, for an instant, Dembe and his associates looking at him strangely, before quickly excusing himself. He hurries to the bathroom and stands there with his head in his heads over the sink, staring in the mirror and just listening to her voice. 

(She sounds beautiful.)

Once he finally gets over the pure shock of it all, he finds himself a little disgusted. She must have just turned eighteen. His soulmate is almost twenty years younger than he is. Will she even be interested in him? He finds it hard to believe that the two of them can find happiness together with such a gap separating them but he tries not to give up hope. He hasn’t even found her yet. 

(Besides, she’s his soulmate. They are fated to love each other. That has to count for something.)

Despite his initial discomfort, it doesn’t take him long to fall in love with the sound of her voice, clear and confident, happy and bubbly. 

(He particularly loves the way she pronounces her r’s, sounding a little like she’s juggling the consonant around in her mouth before finally wrangling it into submission. He finds it unbearably endearing. He can’t wait to watch her mouth form the beautiful words he can now hear in his head every waking moment.)

He is on pins and needles every day after that, wondering where and when they’ll finally find each other. Should he go about his normal routine or make special plans to try and find her? No, surely fate knows what it’s doing. 

(If only he knew.)

When he hears Lizzie’s voice on the first surveillance tape he’s watched in years, a few days prior to her wedding to Tom, he almost collapses in shock. It’s her. Her. The girl he saved the night of the fire is his soulmate? 

(It makes him wonder how far fate goes to secure these things. Did he save her because she is his soulmate or did she save him and become it?)

And she’s a government agent, as luck would have it. Or maybe fate has a sense of humor too. It doesn’t take him long to devise a plan, his thoughts, now crystal clear in her angelic voice, coming even quicker than before. He finds a way to finally be with her, all the while continuing his self-appointed mission of dismantling the Cabal and the awful criminals that populate his particular circle of hell.

(They can be soulmates and partners, together in everything they do. The thought sends sparks of excitement through his veins.)

And it rips him apart inside that she didn’t wait for him, that she accepted her fake husband’s proposal of a life together when she hasn’t suffered nearly as long or as hard as he has in waiting. After all, he’s been there with her every step of the way, his voice keeping her company as she went through life. That’s something he never had. 

But he doesn’t resent her. He can recall only too clearly the empty, gaping feeling loneliness creates. He just wishes he could tell her that Tom won’t fill the gap of her soulmate’s absence. It won’t last.

(Tom isn’t him.)

And it doesn’t. Tom finds his soulmate, the slithering snake, and leaves her, Red’s Lizzie, alone again. It’s not long after this that, looking at surveillance photos of her, sad and alone, Red can’t take it anymore. The day he receives a photo of her by herself on a park bench, a single tear escaping her beautiful blue eyes, Red decides to turn himself in. 

(He can’t wait anymore. And, more importantly, neither can she.)

* * *

When Liz walks carefully down the stairs at the black site, with no idea she is striding purposefully towards her soulmate, she simply stares him down with fake confidence until he speaks.

“Agent Keen, what a pleasure.”

Oh.

That’s it, there’s not a doubt in her mind, that voice, butter and velvet and all things nice. Here he is. A world class criminal, her natural enemy, here in front of her. 

(He’s perfect.)

And she was wrong, he is not necessarily tall or dark but he certainly is handsome. There is the confidence oozing from every pore, just as she imagined, the confidence only an older man can possess attracting her instantly and he smiles at her, knowing and loving, and oh. 

Oh, yes.

_Finally._

* * *

When she comes walking carefully down the stairs at the black site, the light filtering around her, making her look like an angel descending from heaven, Red lets out a breath he’s not sure how long he was holding. 

“Well, I’m here.”

Yes, he wants to say. Yes, you’re here. Thank god.

She’s impossibly beautiful here, in person, even better than the tiny, grainy miniature he’s used to seeing in photos. Her eyes are his favorite shade of blue because she’s always there in his head with him, he just didn’t know it, and her voice is just right, here in front of him.

(She’s perfect.)

And suddenly all the years of silence and wandering are completely worth it because she’s here now and he can’t wait to know her, have his suspicions about her favorite things confirmed or denied, just spend days and days talking to her, making up for lost time, hearing her beautiful voice from her own gorgeous mouth.

Red’s eyes move to her lips, the part of her he’s wanted to see most of all and, yes, he can’t wait to finally capture them in a long-awaited kiss and – 

Oh, yes.

_Finally._


	2. Chapter 2

**16\. brand new neighbours au**

Liz sighs, pushing her hair out of her face and trying not to look as though she's wiping sweat off her forehead at the same time as she exits the elevator, scowling at the cheerful ding that follows her into the lobby.

Liz hates moving. 

It has never been fun or exciting for her, not full of new opportunities and fresh starts like some ridiculously optimistic people say. In the blessedly few times she has moved in her thirty-five years, Liz has only ever found it to be difficult, stressful, and exhausting. 

This move is no different.

She has no choice, however, in this move. And, difficult though it is, Liz knows it is the best thing for her. This will be her first post-divorce apartment, someplace that isn't permeated with the presence of her cheating ex-husband, a place that is all her own. The brownstone had been Tom's originally (as well as the dog and the happiness) and he wasted no time in kicking her out as soon as the divorce was final. 

(She was gone before he came home from work the next day.)

Liz had been lucky in finding this apartment building. It’s in a good location, has good amenities, and isn’t too far from her work. The rent is a little higher than she'd like but she shouldn't have any trouble paying it with her government psychologist salary. After all, it's just her now. No gourmet dog food or meaningless spousal gifts to buy.

(Money certainly doesn’t buy happiness.)

Now, despite her foul mood, as she leaves the friendly lobby of her new building, the automatic doors sliding open to release her back into the sweltering July heat, Liz can't find it in her to regret her decision.

(She has a funny feeling she'll be happy here.)

As soon as she gets this move over with.

Easier said than done.

Liz sighs and crosses the parking lot to her car, taking a moment to retie her hair in a ponytail, sweeping up all the sticky strands that have fallen free and stuck to her neck in her trips from her car to her new apartment. She can't wait to get all her things inside and just take a shower. Feeling clean again before ordering some takeout is her only goal, quickly followed by falling into her new bed, made or not. 

(At least it’s not the couch in the brownstone.)

At long last, Liz makes it to her car - why the hell did she park on the far side of the lot in this godforsaken heat? - and hits the fob to unlock the door, reaching for the handle without thinking. Before she can get the door open, she is hissing and jerking her hand back, successfully singeing her hand on the hot metal of the door handle.

Perfect.

She starts muttering angrily to herself as she yanks the door open - quicker and with a deep breath in preparation - cursing her stupid ex-husband and her own stupidity in turns. But at least this is the last box of her stuff. She’d left most of the brownstone’s contents with Tom, not wanting anything to remind her of him, just taking her own personal items and things that she has a deep emotional connection to. It only amounted to about a dozen boxes of varying sizes, all able to fit into her car in one trip. 

Small mercies.

Liz heaves the last box from the back seat with a groan of effort. It's the largest one by far, which is why she left it for last, and it’s cumbersome and awkward to carry, full of all her heavy but luckily not fragile items. 

She drops it unceremoniously to the asphalt of the parking lot for a moment to lock her car once again before giving a huge sigh and struggling to hoist it back up into her arms, turning to make the long trek back across the lot to the building.

Last trip.

It can’t come soon enough.

By the time she makes it back to the sanctuary of the lobby, she is sweating profusely, her arms aching from carrying her luggage. She almost stops to rest in the lobby (and maybe strip off all her clothes and lay down on the cool tile in complete and utter defeat) but she spies an open elevator and, in a sudden flash of determination, makes a beeline for it.

Liz sees a man already occupying the elevator and curses her luck for the umpteenth time that day. She’s had empty elevators for the entirety of her move, why can’t the last one, when she no doubt smells the worst, be empty, why can’t – 

But then the elevator doors start to close and her eyes widen. She’s only half-way across the lobby, she can’t make it in time.

“Hold the elevator!” she calls desperately.

But the stranger in the elevator has luggage of his own. He has multiple bags and boxes, evidently trying to be a hero and make it up to his place in a single trip. He has a bulging backpack on, a heavying-looking messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and a large box to rival Liz’s in his arms. He hears her call and looks up in alarm.

“Oh –”

He attempts to jostle his box around in his arms to reach the button on the wall of the elevator but Liz knows he won’t hit it in time. She keeps plowing ahead anyway, headstrong as always, and makes it to the doors just in time to see them close in front of the stranger’s face. Liz gets a brief glimpse of green eyes behind black framed glasses and hears a desperate “sorry!” before the doors shut in her face.

Great.

Liz gives the elevator doors a heartfelt kick with one foot, unable to hold back a frustrated growl. 

“Damn it!”

(She tosses a guilty glance towards the welcome desk, thankful there is no one on duty to witness her temper tantrum.)

Liz can’t hold the box long enough to wait for the elevator to come back down – the bastard inside was going to her floor, of course – and, too stubborn to put it down now, turns for the stairs. She only lives on the third floor. She can make it.

(What a god-awful decision.)

Liz does make it to her floor alive, but just barely, and not without several close calls, repeatedly tripping up the stairs she can’t see because of the huge box, and, at one point, genuinely worried about passing out from exhaustion, falling back down the stairs, and being crushed by her own possessions. 

(Oh well. At least then she could sue the building and the asshole who couldn’t manage to hold an elevator.)

She finally pushes open the door to the third floor with a desperate nudge of her shoulder and staggers to her apartment (she’s never been so happy to see the number 305), only to drop her box to the carpeted hall floor in disbelief, shock, and anger. 

It’s him. 

“Hey, what the hell!”

The stranger from the elevator is currently fiddling with the lock on number 306, squinting through his glasses at his key, standing right across the hall from her apartment.

No way.

He looks up in surprise at her obnoxious yell. 

“Oh, hello!”

Liz gapes at him. 

“‘Oh, hello?’ That’s all you have to say? I just had to climb three flights of stairs with _that thing_ ” – she points viciously to her box – “thanks to _you_! And all you can say is ‘ _Oh, hello_ ’?”

His blinks at her in surprise and gives up on the lock, stuffing his keys in his pocket and bringing his hands up to gesture placatingly.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean for the doors to close on you, I couldn’t reach the button in time! I had some luggage of my own to carry.” He gestures to his bags and box, now on the floor next to the door of 306.

Liz glares at him. He seems very genuine and polite which, for some reason, irritates Liz even more. How dare he be _reasonable_ when she’s had a day like this?

(And it doesn’t help that he’s extremely attractive.)

“Well,” she huffs, mostly for lack of anything else to say. “I’m still mad.”

“Rightly so,” the handsome stranger agrees easily. “That walk up three flights of stairs must have been exhausting.”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” Liz snaps at him, annoyed at his easygoing attitude and his apparent habit of stating the obvious. “And that was just the cherry on top of an already awful day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, his brows creasing in a frown. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Liz feels a sudden lump in her throat, tears beginning to gather in her eyes at the unexpected show of compassion. 

This is ridiculous.

“You know, I do mind, actually,” she snaps, turning away to rifle through her pocket for her own key, blink the tears away, and perhaps regain some dignity. “I don’t even know you, why should I spill my guts to you? Suffice it to say I moved in today and it was horrible and I just want the day to be over.”

“Oh!” the stranger says, sounding strangely upbeat about her troubles. 

Liz’s nerves prickle.

“What?” she snaps, still digging in her pocket impatiently.

“Well,” he says, completely oblivious to the physical danger he’s in at the moment. “I was just thinking that you’re right, you don’t know me now, but that may change in the near future. I just moved in today as well!”

Liz succeeds in yanking her key from her pocket with a furious tug and almost gives a triumphant “aha!” before his words process in her brain. When they finally do, she promptly drops her key to the floor.

“You _what_?”

“I moved it today too,” he repeats patiently, bending down to retrieve her key for her before she can do it herself. “So, nice to meet you, neighbor.” He straightens up with her key in hand, offering it to her with a wink. 

Liz stares at him for a moment, mouth agape unattractively, eyes glued to his handsome features before she pulls herself together enough to snatch her key from him. 

“Y-yeah, well,” she stutters, pushing past him to shove the key into her door. “I think I’ll be reserving judgement on that point, _neighbor_.” She tries to sound as scathing as she feels but she’s really just exhausted and confused and wants to be alone.

Without preamble, she kicks her box along the floor until it’s just inside her apartment, feeling him watching her spectacular show of immaturity in silence, no doubt able to hear the box’s contents jangling around nosily.

(Childishly, she hopes it annoys him.)

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then?” he happily calls after her as she follows her now tattered box into her apartment. 

(Guess not.)

“Well, I guess it’s unavoidable, now, isn’t it?” she snaps, whirling around to see he has moved to stand right in front of her door, feet just outside of her door frame. 

Anger sparks through her.

“And from now on? You can take the stairs.”

And she shuts the door in his face.

* * *

After a cleansing shower, a filling meal of Chinese takeout, and a long sleep, Liz wakes up the next morning feeling sufficiently guilty about the way she acted towards her new neighbor.

(Or, "Mr. Handsome", as she's dubbed him in her head. Probably not a smart idea.)

She…well, she could have been nicer. Which is a bit of an understatement. 

Liz sits now on the tall stool in front of her kitchen island, leaning her elbows on the counter and resting her head dejectedly in her hands. 

She was downright rude to a man whose only crime was accidentally not holding the elevator for a grouchy woman he didn’t even know. And then she harassed him outside her apartment door. Well, _their_ apartments doors, actually. And he was unfailingly polite in the face of her poor manners. In fact, he’s probably the most patient man she’s ever met.

(Tom would never allow her to talk to him like that.)

So, in order to save some face and make it up to him, Liz is resolved to apologize to Mr. Handsome. Somehow. Which is why she’s currently moping in her kitchen. How exactly do you say, “Sorry for being a giant asshole the first second I met you because I was having a bad day?” Is there a Hallmark card for that? No, probably not. 

But there should be, Liz thinks grumpily, tapping her fingers on the counter. Maybe she should make him something. Like food. 

A vision of flaming toaster waffles screams to mind.

Hmm, maybe not. Liz can’t cook to save her life, or anyone else’s, as Tom had frequently reminded her. She has no food in her kitchen anyway. Just a lone box of Chinese leftovers from last night. She can’t very well offer that to Mr. Handsome and expect to garner any favor.

Liz sighs, pushing herself up from the counter. Well, she has to go to the store anyway. Maybe she can pick up something sweet to half-heartedly offer him. Even though she has no idea what he likes. Or if he even likes sweets. 

Ugh, this is impossible.

Liz groans in frustration, snatching her purse from the new hall table, resolving to wander around the store until she is struck with brilliant inspiration. And if it takes all day, so be it. She owes Mr. Handsome that much. 

She trudges to the door and wretches it open, only to be met with a very familiar sight.

Mr. Handsome himself is right across the hall, once again fiddling with the lock on number 306.

(And, oh, she was too angry yesterday to notice just what a wonderful sight it is.)

“You know, maybe you should call a locksmith or something,” she quips, pulling her door shut and leaning against the door jamb just in time to watch him turn in surprise.

“Hello, there!” His smile is bright and genuine and Liz thinks she feels it in her whole body. Interesting. “How are you today?” The tactful question and obvious implication make her smile ruefully and glance down at her shoes self-consciously. 

“Uh, I’m much better, thank you,” she smiles at him shyly. “And, listen, I’m sorry about yesterday. I was rude to you for no good reason. I really started us off on the wrong foot. I hope you can forgive me.”

Mr. Handsome shrugs good-naturedly, his eyes wide and honest. “There’s nothing to be sorry for as far as I’m concerned.”

Liz blinks in surprise. “No, really, I don’t –”

“Everyone has bad days sometimes.”

They look at each other for a long moment, his eyes warm and her face pink.

(Mr. Handsome is kind too.)

Eventually, she nods.

“Thank you.”

He simply smiles at her.

“So, where are you headed?”

“To the store, actually. I have to eat something other than Chinese take-out.”

“Well, then, please allow me to escort you to the elevator.”

“Certainly,” she grins at him as they both turn and start to walk down the hall. “And will you be accompanying me downstairs?”

“Only if it’s acceptable to you. I have to go to the office. I do need a new key, as it happens. This one they gave me barely fits.”

They stop in front of the elevator doors and he pushes the call button, turning to look at her as the bell dings. 

“Well, by all means, you should share an elevator with me,” Liz invites brightly, flirting a little.

(Or a lot.)

“Are you sure?” he raises an eyebrow teasingly. “I seem to recall certain instructions to ‘take the stairs’.”

Liz chuckles with him and nods, glancing back down at her feet again guiltily. “Yes, I’m quite sure I can manage to be in the same elevator with you for three floors.”

“Wonderful,” he says in happy assent, turning away from her as the elevator doors open with another ding. Mr. Handsome politely places his arm in front of the doors to hold them for her, ushering her in ahead of him. He places a gentle, warm hand on her lower back as he follows her into the elevator.

(Liz feels tingles spread from where he touches her and she has to smother a smile.)

“So, going to the store for anything in particular? Other than more socially acceptable dinner food, of course,” he asks easily, apparently a fan of elevator chatter. Liz doesn’t mind. 

“Yes, actually,” she says, turning to smile at him. “I was going to try and find something to thank you with.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you,” he says earnestly. “But, as we’ve already covered, there’s nothing to forgive. Ergo, no edible thank-you necessary.”

“So you’ve said,” Liz agrees, nodding sagely. “But I still feel bad.”

The elevator doors slide open and they step out into the lobby together, strolling leisurely towards the main desk across the polished tile floor, taking their time.

“In that case, I propose a trade.” 

“Oh yes?”

“Yes,” he nods seriously. “Seeing as we’re both brand new tenants and moving in is a difficult and time-consuming process, as evidenced by yesterday, how about we help each other?”

Liz hums thoughtfully. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Mr. Handsome thinks for a moment, looking at her idly. “I could do some heavy lifting for you, help you move anything cumbersome.”

“Cumbersome, you say?” Liz smirks at him, enjoying the playful sparkle in his green eyes, accented so nicely by his black-framed glasses. “I suppose I could offer you some decorating tips, help you with the aesthetic feel of your place, something like that.”

“Well, I have to say, that sounds fair.”

Liz pretends to think for a moment. “I agree.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Handsome says cheerfully. “I think we have a deal. There’s just one unresolved issue.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I still don’t know your name.”

Oh, Mr. Handsome.

“Yes, that’s true, you don’t,” Liz smiles teasingly, enjoying this more than she probably should.

He waits a moment, eyebrows raised hopefully.

“Shall I start then?” he prods. “I’m Raymond.” 

(Raymond. It fits him. Old-fashioned and intelligent. 

She loves it.)

“Hmm,” Liz hums. She can’t resist looking him up and down with renewed interest before she simply nods and does an about face, heading for the automatic doors.

“Or you can call me Red, if you like, it’s an old nickname,” he says to her back, evidently assuming that his name is not to her liking. He’s wrong. “And should I just keep calling you ‘beautiful new neighbor’?”

(Something flutters in Liz’s heart. He thinks she’s beautiful.)

“Oh, it’s Liz,” she calls carelessly over her shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Red!”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lizzie!” she hears just as the automatic doors swoosh open for her, leaving him behind in the cool lobby. 

She can’t wait to see him again.

* * *

She doesn’t have to wait long.

But it’s not quite as she expects.

It’s Red who is at her door later that evening, rousing her from her Doctor Who marathon with a quiet knock and a sheepish smile, asking for help carrying some new furniture up to his apartment. 

“It’s only two kitchen chairs and a floor lamp but they’re quite bulky and the delivery men didn’t even offer to help, honestly, Lizzie, they couldn’t have been more rude.”

She grins and easily assents, looking forward to the adventure of transporting new furniture up three floors with him. 

(And she genuinely wants to spend more time with him.)

They have plenty of fun, Red insisting he carries the chairs, the heavier items, while delegating the lamp to Liz, and taking a separate elevator trip for each, even though he could have easily fit all three things in one elevator and excluded her from the process completely.

(She’s glad he didn’t.)

They talk on the way, asking questions about their respective jobs. He’s very curious about her job as a psychologist (“Tell me about your job - the profiling - I’m fascinated!”) so she regales him with tales of her various cases and patients (while of course protecting doctor-patient confidentiality).

After his curiosity is satisfied, which takes the first two elevator trips, he reveals that he is a lawyer at a nearby firm.

(She has to bite her lip when he tells her that. A handsome lawyer. The only thing better than a handsome doctor. And certainly a league ahead of a cheating schoolteacher.)

He tells her about his more ridiculous cases (while of course protecting attorney-client privilege) and soon has her clutching a stitch in her side from laughing so hard.

(If there's one thing she loves about him so far, and there's definitely more than one thing, it’s that he can tell a story.)

Even when all the furniture is sitting outside his apartment door, successfully moved upstairs, Liz doesn't want to say good night to him. But she knows she must. He insists on seeing her to her door ("Just because it’s one foot away from my own doesn't mean I shouldn't be a gentleman, Lizzie.") and wishing her a good night with a warm smile. 

Liz closes her door and quickly turns around to lean her back against it with a gleeful grin, feeling like a teenager just getting back from her first date. Liz scoffs at herself. She's a thirty-five-year-old divorcee who helped her new neighbor move some furniture, that's all. 

And it was one of the best nights she's had in months.

(She misses him already.)

Luckily, it's not long before she sees him again. Living in the same building, on the same floor, and across the hall from one another tends to make that an inevitability. Luckily.

She finds him, this time, making a point to knock on his door and ask for help carrying in her groceries.

(That fact that she could have managed by herself, albeit with several trips out into the July heat, is irrelevant.)

Red takes to the task with gusto, valiantly taking all the heavy bags, loading seven on each hand, leaving only the lightest bag of bread for Liz to carry. She protests, secretly wanting more elevator rides with him, but he puts up a good fight.

"Carrying everything in with one trip, against all odds, is so much more satisfying than being sensible and spacing things out."

That is how she met him, after all. Carrying too many bags to hold the elevator door for her.

(She can’t help but be grateful for this habit of his.)

But he doesn’t need to know that.

"You think so?"

"I think doing the more difficult thing and succeeding is always more satisfying than taking the easy way out."

"Even at the cost of blood circulation in your hands?" 

"... Perhaps that's debatable."

But Red seems no more eager to leave her than she is to leave him, taking his time sauntering down the hall with her towards their apartment doors, even though the plastic bag handles must be cutting into his hands, apparently under the impression that she'll take the bags from him in the doorway and leave him outside.

As if.

Instead, Liz unlocks the door and ushers him inside towards the kitchen, telling him to just put the bags down anywhere.

"I'll put them away later."

"Nonsense, Lizzie. I never leave tasks undone if I can get them done quickly and efficiently."

And so, he starts to put away her groceries. He stores her refrigerated items quickly, grouping them by size and separating them throughout the shelves, unlike Liz does. 

(She just stuffs things anywhere and spends fifteen minutes looking for snacks later.)

Once he's finished with the fridge, he slows down, putting her other items away and organizing her cabinets at the same time.

He talks to her constantly, keeping up a conversation as he works. She gives brief one or two-word answers, enough to keep him talking, much more interested in watching him. She perches on her kitchen stool, fascinated, observing his organizational system, how he groups cereals and chips together but boxes and containers on another shelf. She has to admit, it makes sense.

(Most things about him do.)

He is almost finished, down to the last two grocery bags, when a thought occurs to him. They are discussing the merits of French cuisine (inspired by the loaf of French bread Liz had carried up, now laying on her countertop) when he suddenly turns around to face her, a bag of butter snap pretzels in one hand and a container of freeze dried fruit in the other.

"You don't mind me doing this, do you, Lizzie?"

Liz just blinks at him, her chin perched on her hand. "I mean, it's a little late to ask, isn't it?" 

She lets him panic for a moment, hands fluttering wildly, before she gives in and laughs out loud. 

"No, of course I don't mind! I must admit, you're doing a fabulous job. I've never thought of categorizing my food before."

He looks relieved before smiling teasingly at her. "No? How on Earth do you find things then?"

"Maybe I like the challenge of searching for them."

He nods thoughtfully, turning back to her cabinets. "That's a good point. Rather time consuming though, isn't it?"

"You're all about speed with things, aren't you?"

And he turns around with a wicked glint in his eyes that she's never seen before. "Only with certain things."

(And, oh, she's very interested in that look.)

Once he's finished organizing her kitchen and giving her heart palpitations, he makes his way back to her front door. Liz follows him, idly admiring the view and watching him looking around. 

(And will she ever get tired of the view?) 

He stops a few feet away from the door in the short entrance hall, catching sight of the three paint swatches she's got taped to the wall. He eyes them curiously.

"Conflicted?"

"A little."

(She's never been more sure of anything.)

He considers for a moment. "I like this one," he points to the middle swatch, a cool gray color. "What's it called?"

"'Chicago Skyline'," Liz answers immediately.

(It's her favorite too.)

He nods thoughtfully. "Nice."

"You like it?"

"Very much. I think it sets off the black leather furniture." 

Liz pretends to think about it. "Hmm, all right. I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

(She's already decided.)

She sees him back to his door ("It's only fair I return the favor, Red. Besides, it’s a dangerous world out there. Who knows who you might run into on the way." "So, you'll protect me from criminals?" "Obviously. I'm a government worker, it’s my civic duty. Plus, you can represent my case in court." "Deal.") and she has to fight the urge to kiss him goodbye.

(Oh, boy.)

The next week finds her in his apartment for the first time, surprisingly bare of furniture despite having been lived in for a full two weeks.

She can't resist teasing him about it.

"Indecisive?"

"Not at all."

(He's not talking about furniture any more than she was talking about paint.)

"I'm just waiting to get a feel for the space. Decorating takes time, Lizzie."

"You haven't felt up your space yet? That sounds like a personal problem."

(She loves the dark twinkle in his eye, matching it with a flirtatious grin of her own.)

"Are you criticizing my decorating techniques?"

"Possibly."

"That's unwise."

"Why particularly?"

"Exhibit A: your kitchen."

"Point taken."

(She loves when his lawyering side comes out to play.)

He'd invited her over to show her his kitchen, in fact, shiny pots and pans hanging delicately over countertops, everything immaculately clean and in its correct place, the “only way to organize a kitchen, Lizzie, you see why I had to show you”.

(A thin excuse if she's ever heard one. She loves it.)

She pretends to be very impressed (actually, there wasn't too much pretending involved, the man can obviously cook), and he spends so much time playfully arguing the values of a labeled spice cabinet to a giggling Liz (lawyer, indeed) that it gets too late to cook and they decide to order take-out instead.

Which is why they end up sitting on the carpet of his living room next to the floor lamp she'd carried up to his apartment last week, eating happily out of take-out containers, both feeling rather as though they're on a date.

(They may not be wrong.)

"How long have we lived here?" he asks out of the blue after a comfortable silence filled with mouthfuls of pork lo mein.

(Liz loves the way he says 'we'.)

"Uh," Liz chews thoughtfully for a minute before swallowing. "About two weeks?"

"Huh," he says, more to himself than to her.

"Why do you ask?" prods Liz curiously.

Red looks up, his eyes strangely tentative. "I was just thinking that it seems like much longer than that."

"Really?" smirks Liz. "Can't have been that long, you don't even have a couch yet."

"The only real furniture you need is a bed, Lizzie, surely you know that," he teases her, his voice low and his eyes dark. He listens to her giggle before the air lightens between them and his smile goes back to thoughtful and hesitant.

"No, I just mean that... Well, it feels like I've known you for much longer."

Liz blinks in surprise. 

(Oh, thank god, she's not the only one.)

She puts down her container of pot stickers and turns to face him, realizing just how close to each other they are sitting on the floor.

She doesn't move away.

"Honestly, I've been thinking the same thing."

She watches as Red's smile changes first to one of wonder and then of relief.

(Oh, Red.)

"Well, I can think of a few things we can do about that, neighbor."

(Oh, _Red_.)

Liz grins, noticing him start to lean in fractionally. Her heart leaps.

( _Red_.)

"Oh, yes?"

"Mhmm."

When his lips finally touch hers, it’s with a wonderful warmth that spreads through her whole body. She smiles into their kiss and edges closer to him. His hand comes up to bury itself in her soft, dark hair and she sighs contentedly into his mouth. 

(It’s perfect.)

It isn't long before she's casually throwing a leg over his, his hands settling happily on her waist, neither of them noticing the container of noodles she upends in the process. She can only think of him and his lips and his hands. 

Oh, and one other thing.

Liz doesn't think they'll be neighbors much longer.

She's hoping for roommates.


	3. Chapter 3

**49\. boss/intern au**

_Ring, ring._

“Go _away_ , I’m not _here_ right now.”

Agent Elizabeth Scott mutters to herself at her desk, glaring at her office phone on the other side of her small cubicle, a thick manila file folder in one hand and a half-eaten piece of buttered toast in the other. Completely overrun with work, with at least twenty different case files spread haphazardly across her work surface, the last thing she wants to do right now is answer the damn phone. 

Especially considering that it’s probably her boss calling with even more work for her to do.

Liz is a government psychologist and she would absolutely love her job if it involved a little less filing and a little more _pro_ filing. Although she’s proved herself countless times to be a hard worker and a competent psychologist, she has been told time and time again by her boss, Harold, that she’s simply too beneficial to their department to be promoted to things like treating actual patients and having an office. 

So, Liz has been working for over three years now in this tiny cubicle, powering through more paperwork than one woman should be responsible for, all because she’s too successful to succeed.

It’s exhausting.

But she has always been driven to do her best at whatever task she is given, hence the ten additional files in her bag that she took home to read through last night and the bags under her eyes, evidence of no caffeine in over twenty-four hours. 

Unacceptable. 

But her boss won’t see unintentional caffeine withdrawal as a reasonable excuse for not answering her phone so, with a pained sigh, Liz tosses her toast onto the small remaining piece of clean desk space and wheels herself across the short length of her cubicle and grab her phone in the middle of its fifth ring.

“Scott.”

“Agent Scott, good to know your phone still works, I was getting worried,” the vaguely amused tones of Harold Cooper sound in Liz’s ear and she gives a little sigh, knowing that the kindly father-figure is not to blame for her unfulfilling career situation.

“Sorry about that, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Well, you can start by being an adult about this.”

Liz freezes in her seat. 

“Sir?”

“Look, Scott, I know how much you hate them but everyone has to do their part at some point.”

Oh no.

“Sir, please –”

“I like you, Scott, and I know how hard you work so I've put this off for as long as possible.”

“Sir, you don't –”

“I knew you wouldn't like it, Scott, which is why I'm not giving you a choice in the matter.”

No.

“What?”

“He's on his way to you now. And be nice to him, Scott, he's just doing his job.”

“But sir –”

And her boss hangs up on her.

Liz slams her phone down with a frustrated growl. Despite how reluctant Harold was to say the word, she knows exactly what he’s referring to.

She has just been assigned a temporary employee.

Liz has worked here for three and a half years and has always refused temps. She has nothing against them specifically – they’re usually just bespectacled high school teenagers looking to get something meaningful on their resume – but she simply works better alone. She’s always been that way and frankly doesn’t trust anyone else to do her job to her standards. That’s how she’s gotten this far in her career. 

And she truly doesn’t have anything for a temp to do, being such a control freak, and has always used that argument with Harold. What’s the point of giving her a temp when they would just sit around for the whole summer in her cubicle with nothing to do? What’s the point of that when the temp agency assigns them here to learn things? And, unlike some of her colleagues, Liz won’t keep a temp around simply to fetch her coffee. 

Even though she desperately needs some right now. 

Liz groans, slumping forward to rest her head on her folded arms, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow her.

This will be horrible.

Maybe she can plead with Harold one last time, put in a last-ditch effort, she might be able to beat the temp here, maybe she can –

She hears a knock on her cubicle wall.

“Hello?”

Apparently not.

Liz quickly sits up straight, whirling around in her desk chair to face the newcomer.

Her eyes land on a man standing in the doorway of her cubicle, hand still raised in mid-knock, looking at her with a little concern. She was just collapsed on her desk in defeat, after all. Liz feels her cheeks start to heat in a blush at being caught in such a show of unprofessionalism but then she takes a second to actually look at the man. 

He’s of average height, fit and firm, slightly older, early fifties perhaps, closely shorn hair, warm green eyes, lightly tanned skin, and impeccably dressed in a brown, three-piece suit.

(And Liz starts to blush for a completely different reason. He’s handsome.)

This can’t possibly be her temp. He’s an older, professional looking man. Not a nervous, babbling teenager.

And he’s starting to look concerned for her sanity.

Liz tries to pull herself together, clearing her throat and quickly running a hand through her hair. 

“Uh, sorry, yes, how can I help you?”

(Smooth.)

“Agent Scott?” he asks tentatively.

“Yes?” she phrases it like a question, still unsure who this attractive man is, but he seems to see it as a confirmation, smiling broadly and stepping forward into her small cubicle.

“I’m your assigned temporary employee, Raymond Reddington. You can call me Red, if you like,” he offers her a hand and she shakes it mechanically, still seated in her office chair, thoroughly confused.

“You’re the temp?” she blurts without thinking. “That can’t be right.”

He blinks and steps back a little, apparently trying giving her physical space to work things out. He chuckles a little when she just continues to frown at him, her hand still floating in the air front of her. 

(Come on, Liz.)

Liz blinks and shakes her head a little, regaining control of her limbs to rub her face with both hands. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “It’s been a rough morning and I’m a little confused. You’re saying you’re my temp?”

“That’s right,” he confirms easily, leaning against her wrap-around desk on the far side of the cubicle, being careful not to sit on any file folders. “I know, not what you expected. I threw off the average age in the temp agency by about thirty years.” 

Liz cracks a smile. Well, she doesn’t feel so bad now.

“No,” she hurries to assure him. “No, that’s all right, just took me by surprise a little, that’s all. Usually they’re in their teens, you know, not – um –”

He smiles good-naturedly at her fumbling.

“Old? It’s okay, you can say it.”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant! I just, um, I, well, what brings you, uh, here?” she asks stupidly, trying to be tactful and failing spectacularly.

“Mid-life career change,” he answers pleasantly. “I was a practicing lawyer for twenty years and, well, I got tired of it. Wanted a change.”

Liz blinks. “So, you picked overworked government psychologist?” 

The man, Red, laughs out loud. “Well, technically, I picked detail-oriented and challenging and this is what they gave me. I think it’ll suit me just fine.” 

He gives her an admiring smile that is just a little too much to handle on only half a piece of toast and no coffee.

(She doesn’t think he’s referring to the job.)

“Well, then. It’s nice to meet you,” she says sincerely. He seems like a nice man, certainly complementary, and definitely better than what she was expecting. “But I’m afraid I don’t really have anything for you to do.”

Red blinks. “Well, what exactly do you do here? You mentioned you’re overworked. Surely there must be something I can help with.”

Liz sighs, preparing to try and explain her boring job in a way that won’t immediately send him running for the hills. “Basically, I take these patient files,” she says, becoming monotone out of habit and pointing around her cubicle to the mentioned objects like a flight attendant. “From practicing government psychologists, write a summary profile of the patients based on their notes, and then enter everything all into the computer system.”

Red hums in thought. “That sounds…time consuming and…tedious.”

Liz smiles ruefully. “It is.” 

“Aren’t you qualified to practice?”

“I am,” says Liz. “And that’s what I’d rather be doing. But apparently I’m too good at filing.” 

Red frowns. “That’s ridiculous. Have you put in for a promotion?”

“Repeatedly.”

“And?”

“Denied. Repeatedly.”

Red scoffs. She appreciates his frustration on her behalf, especially considering they’ve just met.

(It’s rather endearing.)

“Well, the least I can do is help with the filing, right?”

Liz sighs, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “Well, I’m the only one qualified to write up the final psych profiles.”

“Okay,” Red nods easily, not offended. “What about the computer entry? That sounds easy enough.”

Liz grimaces. “It’s a complicated system. And as irritating as it is, I actually prefer to do it myself. I’m a bit of a perfectionist. That’s why I avoid temps at all costs, because I can’t give you any work.”

Red nods, thinking to himself. “All right, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Liz offers and she really is. She watches him push off from her desk, expecting him to bid her a good day and go back to Harold for a new assignment. She can expect a phone call about that and it won’t be pleasant, that’s for sure, she hopes that – 

“Have you eaten yet today, Agent Scott?”

Except he’s still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at her with bright eyes, as though he’s just gotten an idea.

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” he says, stepping forward eagerly. “If I can’t help you with your professional tasks, perhaps I can help you with your personal ones. You’re overworked and I am here to help, after all. I get the feeling that you’re so dedicated to your job, as unsatisfying as it is, that you tend to neglect yourself in the process.”

(He’s smart too.)

Liz gapes at him. “Uh, who’s the profiler here again?” she says with a breathless laugh. 

Red chuckles back. “Well, the stray piece of toast was a bit of a give-away, to be honest. But you also look exhausted. Would you like some real breakfast? With coffee?”

A coffee-fetcher? That’s exactly what she didn’t want.

“Look, I don’t want to demean you to getting coffee, that’s not fair, I –”

“Well, I defy all other temp stereotypes, shouldn’t I try to do at least one thing right?”

And he gives her a crooked smile that shouldn’t be nearly as comforting as it is.

(Maybe he can help her.)

He seems to sense her relent.

“How do you take your coffee, Agent Scott?” he asks gently.

Liz smiles at him, suddenly shy. “Two creams, one sugar. And it’s Liz.”

Red nods easily. “Then I’ll be back soon…Lizzie.”

And he’s out the door before she can say anything else.

Well. That’s something.

* * *

He’s back within the hour with some delicious pastries and coffee so good it should be illegal.

“My god, this is heaven,” Liz sighs after stuffing two mini muffins and a bear claw in her mouth in quick succession and washing it all down with perfectly prepared coffee.

She hears Red chuckle softly. He’s sitting in a chair stolen from a nearby conference room and squeezed into her cubicle and has been slowly eating a turnover while watching her inhale her breakfast in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

“Well, I’m glad you like everything,” he says happily. “I went to my favorite pastry place. It’s not far from here, just a few blocks down the street.”

Liz sighs contentedly, drinking her coffee slower now, feeling it absorb into the pastries in her stomach, making her feel pleasantly full. Hopefully she won’t be asleep on her desk by noon.

“Well, I’ll definitely have to stop by there sometime,” she smiles at him, marveling at how much her mood has improved with some delicious food and pleasant company. 

(Very pleasant.)

“So,” starts Red after an appropriate pause. “I suppose my next assignment is lunch. What do you feel like?”

Liz laughs out loud, setting her coffee carefully on her desk. “Slow down, there, Red. I hardly ever have a breakfast like this. I may have to skip lunch altogether.”

Instead of laughing at she expected, Red frowns at her. “You shouldn’t skip meals, Lizzie, that’s not good. At least have something light, like a salad.”

Liz blinks, taken aback by his sudden concern. “It’s okay, Red, I’ll have something later,” she smiles reassuringly at this strangely caring man. 

(She’s known him for less than a day and he’s already fed her more than she’s eaten in the past three days combined.)

Liz straightens up in her chair. “In the meantime, I have to get back to work,” she informs him regretfully.

“Okay,” he says, immediately gathering the pastry wrappers and his empty coffee cup to toss in the trash. “Would you like me to leave?”

Liz blinks. “Leave?” For some reason, she can’t fathom an empty cubicle now. “No, no, that’s okay. It’s just data entry. Why don’t you stay and keep me company? Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, all right,” says Red, sounding pleasantly surprised at the idea. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, I must confess, I am curious as to how one receives a color for a nickname…”

And so, he talks and she types and it’s not nearly as horrible as she thought having a temp would be. Although, she gets the feeling that Red is not a normal temp.

(And she’s glad.)

* * *

This goes on for the next week, Red bringing her breakfasts of varying types, pastries, eggs, pancakes, all in convenient take-out containers with all the proper sides and utensils. And coffee. He never forgets her coffee. And it’s always perfect.

(Rather like him.)

“You’re spoiling me, Red,” she tells him morning after morning. “How in the world will I fend for myself when the summer’s over?” 

He simply smiles and tells her she’ll get by. 

(She’s not so sure.)

He always eats with her and when she’s done and ready to start work, he cleans up and takes his place in the chair by her desk, telling her stories about himself and his previous job while she types up patient files. Somehow, the work goes quicker with someone at her side. His chatter keeps her focused and moving forward and, while it is still tedious, frustrating work, he makes it bearable.

(Company goes a long way.)

The more days that go by, the more coffee he brings her, the more stories he tells her, she starts to frown at the thought of him leaving, not there to welcome her in the mornings and stay late after work to hand her file after file as she types, trying to prolong her time with him.

(The thought of an empty cubicle seems even worse than before.)

He does occasionally ask to help her with her files, citing his boredom and lack of things to do with his hands. She always politely refuses and he relents and moves on, knowing not to push her and her perfectionist tendencies. 

(But they both know he’s wearing her down.)

And it’s one quiet rainy afternoon that she finally gives in. She’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s the comfortable silence in her cubicle today. He’s not talking as much, leaving them both to listen to the rain pattering on the building’s roof and their respective breathing. It’s not at all unpleasant and he hasn’t asked yet today but the thought occurs to Liz and, for the first time, she doesn’t immediately reject it.

(That’s been happening with a lot of things lately.)

“Um, Red?” she asks tentatively, spinning a little in her chair to face him.

“Yes?” he responds right away. He was paying attention even though they weren’t talking. 

(And he was already staring at her.)

“Uh, would you consider helping me out today?”

His eyebrows raise but he knows better than to question it. “Of course!” he says eagerly. “What would you like me to do?”

“Well,” Liz says, picking up the next file from her unending pile. “Can you read me this information in the order it’s listed on the page? That might make the inputting process a little quicker, you know, if I don’t have to keep looking down to read.”

“Certainly,” he says, taking the file from her and flipping it open. “So, I just start with the name and go on down?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” she murmurs.

He glances up at her over the top of the folder, giving her a steady, patient look. “That’s what I’m here for, remember, Lizzie?”

Liz smiles shyly and nods. “Yes.”

“And you’re in luck.”

(She knows.)

“Why’s that?”

“I’m an excellent reader.” 

She can’t help a giggle at that. Silly man. 

(But he’s right. His voice is delightful to listen to, especially when he’s spouting words like “schizophrenia” and “apraxia”.)

They get into a system, Red reading and Liz typing, and it goes even quicker than before. Liz is happy to still be in charge of the main elements of her job and able to supervise the information going into the system and Red is happy to have something helpful to do. Plus, the rate they’re getting through the files can’t be beat.

(She just needed to trust him a bit.)

And the fact that Harold stops by to dump twenty more files on her desk, giving her and Red a curious look as he does so, doesn’t bother her nearly as much as it used to.

* * *

It’s a few weeks after that, about halfway through the summer, that something changes. They’ve been going on with their routine (eating, talking, reading, typing) when Liz has to take a sick day. It’s only a stupid doctor’s check-up that she completely forgot about but it’s the first work day since Red came knocking on her cubicle and for some reason that means something to her. 

She calls him as early as she dares, not wanting to wake him, but he sounds perfectly awake when he picks up the phone at seven in the morning.

“And I just completely forgot about the appointment, Red,” she’s telling him, speaking fast. “I can’t believe it, thank god the doctor’s office called yesterday to remind me otherwise that would have been awkward, but –”

“Really, Lizzie, it’ll be fine, I’m sure the government will continue to function while its best psychologist has a check-up. Relax.”

“I mean, maybe I should come in for a half day after lunch, the appointment won’t take long, I wonder –”

“Lizzie, no.” 

She is surprised by the firmness of his voice. After all, Liz is used to being in charge in the office. This is…different. Her stunned silence gives him a chance to speak.

“Don’t come in, Lizzie, take the day. You deserve it, no one works harder in that department than you. So, please, I don’t want to see you until tomorrow.”

Since when did he become her boss? He’s her temp, for god’s sake. And the amount of times Harold has tried to tell her to take vacation like that is simply laughable.

(And Liz would be lying to herself if his words “I don’t want to see you” didn’t hurt her a little, despite the fact that she can hear the teasing note in his voice and knows it’s all in jest. How completely irrational of her.)

“But, Red,” she protests weakly, already mostly convinced. “What will you do today?”

“Oh, I’ll go into the office, of course,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I have to cover for my boss, you know. You owe me one, by the way.”

She lets out a laugh despite herself. “But, Red, I won’t be there. What will you do?”

“Well, Agent Scott,” he says patiently. “You have spent a month and a half training me to input psych data into the most redundant computer system known to man. How about you let me give you a true day off and I’ll tackle a file or two?”

“But –” Liz blusters, completely taken aback. She thought he’d been satisfied with reading her the material to type. She thought he’d given up trying to do her work for her. 

(She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed.)

“Red, I haven’t been training you, not really –”

“I’ve been observing, Lizzie.”

(Oh, she knows that. She can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of her face even now, with him on the other side of town.)

“Are – are you sure?” Liz stutters, feeling at once wildly uncomfortable with letting someone else do her work and somehow completely confident that Red will do just fine. Odd.

“Absolutely, Lizzie,” Red assures her, a little bit of that firmness coming back into his voice. “Enjoy your day off and I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles weakly.

“And Lizzie?”

“Yes?”

“I promise I’ll let you check all my work when you get back.”

She’s still laughing when they hang up.

* * *

Liz spends the day trying to ignore her completely illogical unease over letting Red do something for her that she knows he’s completely capable of. And she mostly succeeds.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust Red to do the files. In reality, it’s ridiculously easy work. She just isn’t used to letting anyone else do her job for her. But, she supposes, that comes from being alone and responsible for so much for as long as she has been. She is wary of trust. But she knows Red can do it. And, worse comes to worse, she can correct his work, just like he said. 

(And somewhere in the back of her mind, she marvels at how understanding and patient Red is with her picky tendencies. A lesser man would have lost patience with her long ago. Which is probably why she’s still single. She supposes she is a certain breed of workaholic. But Red is teaching her to loosen up. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with letting a willing man help to lighten the load.

… And she thinks there’s a valuable life lesson in there somewhere.)

Her morning doctor’s appointment flies by easily, completely routine, and she attempts to make the most of her afternoon off, her first in quite a long while. She unplugs her headphones and turns her speakers up for once while giving her house a thorough cleaning. Perhaps not the most exciting task for the first day off she’s had in ages but housework is something that unfortunately gets ignored when she comes home late at night with a bag full of files and takeout. And cleaning is organized work, something she enjoys and takes pleasure in the mindlessness of. 

(And maybe she sings a little louder than she normally would and that’s fine. She wonders if Red would join in.

She misses him.)

* * *

Liz wakes up early the next day, eager to get into the office to see what Red managed to accomplish while she was gone.

She’s only a little nervous.

She beats him there, as she usually does, since he’s the one that stops for their breakfast, and tries not to panic when she steps into her cubicle, turns on her light, and sees – 

Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. Her whole wraparound desk is completely empty, no trace of the disorganized clutter of files that have covered the surface for the majority of the last three years. What happened here yesterday? Did Red steal her files and commit some weird form of corporate espionage? Because there’s no way that he got them all into –

Liz rushes to her computer and turns it on – noting offhand that the screen has been polished – quickly pulling up the psych documentation program and – 

They’re all here. All the files. Well, most of them. There’s about twenty that she doesn’t see, where – 

“They’re in the drawer to your right.”

Liz whips around, a hand clutching her chest, heart hammering a mile a minute, to see Red standing in the doorway to her cubicle with breakfast containers in hand.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, smiling gently. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Liz breaths heavily, blinking at him. 

“How – how did you –”

“I’m a fast typist,” he shrugs, seemingly thinking nothing of it, moving into the cubicle to set up their breakfast, just like he does every morning. “I didn’t get all of them done, unfortunately, Harold told me to go home. But I spent the lunch break cleaning up your desk space a little. Because let me tell you, there were paper clips everywhere once all those folders were moved, so I re-organized a little, I hope you don’t mind. This system might be a little easier for you now, we’ll have to see. If you don’t like it, I can easily change some things around, I –”

But then he stops talking because suddenly her arms are wrapped around him in a hug and his nose is in her hair and she feels him take a sharp breath inward but she doesn’t care because she just can’t believe it. 

(And she’s wanted to hug him since long before he gathered her paper clips.)

It only takes a second for Red to wrap his arms around her in return and they just stand there for a while, Liz feeling so grateful for this man, this _temp_ , who invaded her cubicle and her life and somehow made everything _better_.

“Thank you, Red,” she murmurs into his shoulder. And his face is pressed into her hair so she feels his next words, both in the movement of his lips and in the rumble in his chest.

(It’s delightful.)

“You’re welcome, Lizzie.”

* * *

Things are different after that. They share duties, some days Red types and some days it’s Liz. She welcomes the arrival of more files in her incoming box (courtesy of Red, a habit from his lawyer days, as well as her new outgoing box, perfect for the files already inputted) and she starts to look forward to them instead. Because it means more time with Red.

(And she enjoys being with him very much.)

They work faster when Liz sits in Red’s old seat, scanning the file and quickly developing a profile on the patient, dictating while Red types. And Red is a very quick typist, much faster than Liz, if he doesn’t stop to ask Liz questions. Which he usually does. 

He’s a naturally curious person. 

Liz doesn’t mind. She enjoys explaining the ins and outs of profiling to him. And she gets a chance to show off a little, flexing her psychologist muscles in a way that her current job doesn’t allow. 

(And she can’t help but notice the way he’s seems endlessly impressed with her knowledge. It’s very flattering.)

They spend many a late night discussing the many patients that cross her desk, debating the merits of the human mind.

(It’s some of the most stimulating conversation Liz has had since she was in a classroom full of like-minded peers. That shouldn’t be surprising though. She and Red are startlingly similar.)

It’s one of these late nights, the rest of the cubicles empty, that they find themselves deep in discussion about one particular patient. 

“He’s obsessive compulsive.”

“How do you know that?” Red asks, sounding a little in awe. 

“It’s very clear in his habits,” Liz states simply.

“Oh, please,” scoffs Red. “You didn’t say anything about repeated hand-washing or anything like that.”

Liz chuckles. Sometimes Red likes to pick a fight even though he knows she’s right. She tries not to find it cute. “OCD doesn’t always manifest in fear of contamination. It can be represented in more subtle ways.”

“Like what?”

Liz looks up from the case file. “Well, in this man’s case, it reflects in his relationships.” 

“His relationships?” Red turns away from the computer screen, the file completely typed up in record time.

Liz nods, closing the folder with finality. “Yes. His sessions indicate the same repeated tendencies in all his long-term relationships. He is repeatedly accused by his partners of being overwhelming and controlling. But according to his session notes, he doesn’t feel he is. In some cases, he is unsure about his partner’s feelings, despite the duration and strength of the relationship. At the best of times, he feels he is merely being protective and attentive but, in reality, he’s smothering. The fact that this behavior is unintentionally repeated is a clear sign of relationship OCD.”

“I had no idea that could happen,” murmurs Red. 

Liz nods calmly. “It’s more common than you’d think.”

Red frowns. “Well, what if it’s not OCD? Maybe people like that are just misunderstood.”

“Maybe,” allows Liz, getting up and crossing her cubicle to put the file in her outgoing box. She stays there, tired of sitting, and turns to look at Red, leaning against her desk. “Though that kind of behavior is a little worrying.”

“You think so?” questions Red idly, following her lead by standing from his seat at her computer and stretching a little. “If his only symptoms are wanting to be around his partner, is that really a symptom? Maybe he just experiences his relationships very intensely.”

“It’s possible,” Liz says, nodding. “I think we’ve all felt a little obsessive in our relationships at one time or another. Especially in the early stages.”

Red nods thoughtfully and steps closer to her, the atmosphere seeming to thicken in the room as he does so. “Yes, some people have that effect on you.”

(They’re not talking about the patient anymore.)

Liz watches him approach her, her heart fluttering a little. “What kind of effect?”

“Oh, you know the kind,” Red murmurs, looking into her eyes now, his gaze dark and warm and affectionate. “It draws you in, it’s very inviting. The kind of person that keeps you interested and compelled and engaged even after a long time of knowing one another. You start to wonder at all the little things and everything they do seems extraordinary.”

He stops very close to her, looking at her meaningfully, his eyes starting to burn a little with a feeling, a message for her. She stares back, breathless and excited.

“I think I know that kind of person,” she murmurs back to him. “Absolutely devoted to their partner, helpful, loving, caring. Very attractive qualities.”

“Hmm, you think so?” his voice is deep and she sees his hands raise very slowly, coming up to cradle her face oh so gently. 

“Mhm…” she hums as they lean in together, the most natural thing in the world, and when their lips touch it’s so easy and right. Liz’s hands slide up Red’s chest and over his shoulders to cup the back of his head, sighing happily into his mouth as their lips slide over one another’s. He hums deep in his chest and the feeling makes Liz press closer and it’s wonderful.

(It’s never felt so good to trust someone.)

When he pulls away, it’s far too soon and she feels cold so she presses closer to him, tucking her head under his chin and he rubs her back lovingly.

(She’s never been more comfortable.)

“Lizzie,” he whispers after a minute. “Can I ask you a question?”

She just hums, no real words involved, her fingers still caressing his neck.

“Will you go out with me?”

Her eyes open slowly and her mouth curls into a smile before a sobering thought occurs to her. She pulls back from him reluctantly with a grimace.

“Actually, um, there’s kind of a strict policy on inter-office dating,” she mumbles

Red frowns. “Well, I’m a temp, so technically we’re not co-workers,” he reasons. “So, this doesn’t count, does it?”

Liz frowns. “Honestly, it’s probably close enough.”

“Oh,” Red mutters, frowning. “Well, then, what –”

But then an idea occurs to Liz and it will fix everything and it’s honestly perfect so she takes a step away from Red to flatten her hair and straighten her blouse and altogether look somewhat like she wasn’t just making out with her temp.

(She feels like giggling.)

“Mr. Reddington,” she starts formally, seeing his immediate frown at her usage of his surname. “I’m sorry to say that I have some bad news for you.”

“Oh?”

“You’re fired.”

Liz manages to keep a straight face as she watches his eyebrows raise in surprise and then furrow in confusion.

(He’s adorable.)

He stands there, frowning, until she gives him a meaningful look and then comprehension dawns in his eyes.

“Oh, I see. That is unfortunate,” he rumbles, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he looks at her, his eyes dancing. “But, in that case, Agent Scott, as an unemployed man not at all associated with this office, can I ask you a question?”

Liz just beams at him.

(She knew he’d get it.)

“Will you go out with me?”

And she throws herself across her cubicle and into his arms, kissing him enthusiastically.

(Oh, this is definitely her new favorite thing to do.)

After a moment, she pulls back from him a scant inch to murmur a quick sentence. 

“By the way, breakfast is on me tomorrow.”

He quirks an eyebrow, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes? And where should I meet you?”

Liz darts forward to steal one more quick kiss. 

“My place.”


	4. Chapter 4

**13\. co-stars au**

The first time he sees her, she is covered in fake blood and screaming.

It’s quite an introduction. 

But even if their first meeting hadn’t been that dramatic, he still would have been stunned by her. 

(Sometimes he feels like he was destined to love her.)

Elizabeth Keen is an actress, one of the best, all blue eyes and dark hair and pale skin. She is an absolute talent, a golden girl of Hollywood, and everyone knows her name. Men want to date her and woman want to be her and oftentimes it's the other way around. 

But real life isn’t as perfect as the movies.

Because Raymond Reddington is a famous actor in his own right but he is in no way as loved as Lizzie. He’s recently single and his messy divorce was spread all over the news when Carla had “let it slip” that her infidelity was the reason. He’s in the midst of a full-blown career slump and a mild emotional crisis.

But, somehow, they end up working together.

Their first film is a cheap horror movie. It is Lizzie’s first big role and Red is cast as the hook for audiences, the one reputable name in the cast. He’s been desperate for work since his highly publicized divorce and takes the job without hesitation, surprising just about everyone, including himself. But he’s glad he does it. The film is an unexpected hit, mostly thanks to Lizzie, and it helps to get his career back on track.

(Besides, if he hadn’t done this film, he never would have met her.)

Red is immediately attracted to her – what idiot wouldn’t be? – but they don’t have many scenes together and she doesn’t seem to notice him. She is very professional, sticking close to her more intimate co-stars, always very prepared and invested in her scenes. Red would be lying if he said he doesn’t sometimes stick around set after his filming is done to watch her act. Her performances - even when her character is fruitlessly plotting against the demon monster locked in the basement – are strangely mesmerizing. 

(And if Red notices a shy glance or two from her while she studies her script or has her makeup redone, then he dismisses it as coincidence. She can’t be interested in him.)

It isn’t until their next movie together, a stuffy period piece, that Red discovers she is married. He supposes it would be obvious to anyone with the brains to operate a computer but he simply didn’t care to look it up. 

(And he suspects, inside, that he didn’t want to know.)

He plays an older suitor of Lizzie’s, one she eventually turns down despite his large fortune (the money alone is evidence that the film is a complete work of fiction), but they have more scenes together than they did in their horror film, and it’s during an early rehearsal that they finally speak for the first time. 

“Raymond Reddington?” a quiet but clear voice sounds over his shoulder.

He turns in surprise and sees her standing there, her gorgeous eyes bright and excited.

“That’s me,” he says, his heart suddenly in his throat.

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth Keen, I’m playing the main character in this film. I think we have some scenes together and I just wanted to introduce myself before rehearsal starts,” she offers her hand to him, a little shy, but determined. “And, I have to tell you, I’m a huge fan.”

He can’t help but blink in surprise. She knows his work? “Well, thank you very much, that’s quite a compliment,” he says to her. “And I think I have to return the sentiment. You’re quite the rising star.”

She blushes prettily and hangs her head a little. “I’m not sure about that but thank you anyway. I’m looking forward to working together.”

The smile she gives him is nothing short of lovely and they look at each other for a long minute before her assistant calls her away and she goes with a little wave.

(From there, it’s rather a slippery slope for Red.)

Her husband visits set a few times and Red takes an instant dislike to him. Red supposes it’s a matter of principle, hating the husband of the woman he's falling for, but he has a feeling he would hate Tom Keen even if he'd never met Lizzie.

He's slimy and sneaky, oozing insincerity, praising Lizzie one second and then, as soon as her back is turned, ogling other women on set, chatting up the body doubles while Lizzie is in makeup, cheating on her in every way except the physical. 

(Although Red is sure he's doing that too.)

But it's not Red's place to tell Lizzie, after all, he barely knows her, and he'd simply come across as petty and jealous. Besides, he can see how much she dotes on Tom, utterly devoted to her sweet husband. He's an actor too, as it happens, but much less successful, clearly riding the waves of Lizzie's new stardom.

(He makes Red sick.)

But Red holds it back, staying polite and friendly with Lizzie through their shooting of the period piece, slowly getting to know her better. They spend their scenes together making pleasant small talk, discussing their work, and Red takes every opportunity to compliment her acting.

For her part, Lizzie likes to analyze the characters, their motivations and personalities. She is so obviously in this business for the artistry of it and her dedication to the craft amazes Red, reminding him of the fervor he acted with when he was younger.

(She's an inspiration.)

The film becomes so highly anticipated that the premiere is quite an event, all black tie and catering. Red attends, only because his publicist tells him he must, and sulks all the way there, dreading the awkward questions and social exhaustion he knows he’ll be facing soon. But it all becomes curiously worth it when he sees Lizzie posing on the red carpet in a gorgeous wine-colored number, all short sleeves and long skirt and high slit.

In his stupor, frozen halfway out of his limo, Red seriously considers dramatically sweeping over and taking her arm, coyly suggesting that she be his date for the evening, and perhaps afterwards they'll grab a drink and –

(But this isn’t a movie. The good guy doesn’t always win.)

His fantastical train of thought is stopped in its tracks when her husband slinks to her side, flaunting in front of the cameras, openly flirting with the interviewers, completely stealing the limelight from Lizzie.

Red's blood boils. How dare that snake profit off Lizzie's talent and hard work? Red’s only consolation is that he sees Lizzie's glances at Tom, no longer as blindingly adoring, a slight twist to the edges of her smile that signal her discomfort, a detail so minimal that no one would notice it if they hadn't spent the last two movies of their career observing her facial tics and reacting accordingly. 

(He already knows her better than Tom ever will.)

Red seethes but puts on a blinding smile for the cameras (he is an actor, after all) and sees Lizzie throw a few friendly glances his way. He smiles and waves, not wanting to take the recognition from her first lead role with his own status. Not that he’s anything special. He just doesn't want to accidentally outshine her. 

(As far as Red is concerned, this is her night.)

Once the red carpet drama is over, everyone, actors and press alike, settle in to watch the first screening of the film. Red abhors watching himself on film so he occupies himself with watching Lizzie’s acting instead. She is even more stunning with editing and post production and all the angles he couldn't see as they acted one-on-one. She's a natural.

(And he does his best to ignore Tom's hand, possessively clutching Lizzie's thigh a few seats down from him.)

The film ends to thundering applause, more so than Red was anticipating, and the cast stands to recognize it. He doesn't consider himself a star of the film by any means. A main character perhaps but his name is still in rather small print on the poster. 

So, he is incredibly surprised at the reception when (just as he is trying to determine how long he has to stay before he can finally sneak out), Red suddenly finds himself being thrown together with Lizzie by clamoring reporters and bombarded with questions. 

Lizzie looks just as stunned as he is but, to her credit, she pulls herself together quickly, trying to be polite and address one question at a time. All Red hears are words like "chemistry" and "screen time" and "romantic interest" and he can't help blinking in shock.

He and Lizzie?

(And he'd be lying if he said he didn't delight in the knowledge that someone else sees it, the way they look together, how perfect they could be.)

"So how did you achieve such crackling chemistry with each other on set, Liz?" one of them asks and Red glances at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what she will say.

"Oh, well," Lizzie says hesitantly. "Red is such a reliable presence on set. We spend a lot of time talking about our characters and how they interact, so I suppose that helps us get immersed in the roles, so we can really flesh them out and make a connection."

She looks at him tentatively as she finishes, as if for confirmation, and he nods dumbly, finding himself completely relieved that she enjoyed their time together on set together too, even if for her it was strictly for the purpose of getting into character.

(He'll take what he can get.)

"And what about you, Red?" shouts one of the reporters and Red jerks around at his nickname.

"Well, I think Lizzie said it perfectly," he says simply, shrugging a little, not seeing a need to add anything.

(Besides, if he tried to say more, he'd probably blurt out something stupid and truthful, like he’s in love with her.)

If there's one thing Red has learned in his semi-successful career, it's that less is more with the press.

And that certainly seems to be true going forward. After the premiere, Hollywood can't seem to get enough of Red and Lizzie and their "out-of-this-world chemistry". Red is equal parts surprised, delighted, and nervous at this new attention. 

(What an interesting combination of feelings.)

He’s surprised that the media and the general audience have latched on as firmly as they have to the two of them. Certainly, he can feel the spark between them when they act together, the intensity in the room as they play off one another, the connection they’ve seemed to have from the start. But other people see it too? That’s the part that he’s delighted with, this public reassurance that it’s not completely in his own head, a product of his own imagination and private yearnings. And the nervousness stems from the fear that Lizzie can see right through him, that the public fascination with them has opened her eyes to what a lecherous old man he is, and she’s only acting with him for the money and fame.

(He wouldn’t blame her.)

It’s with another batch of mixed feelings – excitement coupled with more of that same nervousness – that he signs on to another film with her, a concept born out of sheer demand: a romantic comedy, starring he and Lizzie.

The script seems fairly straight-forward, not the most compelling thing Red has ever read, but a feel-good movie nonetheless. His and Lizzie’s characters dance around each other for the majority of the film, much as they’ve done in their roles before, and it’s not until he gets to the last twenty pages or so that his heart stops beating in his chest. 

They have a kiss scene.

(His first coherent thought is how could he possibly be this lucky.)

His second thought is that Lizzie won’t want to do this. And he would never make her. 

(Ever.)

Red makes himself wait three days, giving her ample time to read the script, before he calls her, her number already saved into his phone from when she entered it during one of their many lunch breaks together. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hi, Red!” she says breathlessly.

“Lizzie, how –” he starts but there is a loud bang and he hears her hiss something to someone.

“Red, can you hang on for one second?” her voice comes back on quietly, as if she’s covering the phone.

“Sure,” he hurries to say but he can tell she’s already off the line. He hears her speaking to someone but he can’t make out any words. He doesn’t think she sounds very happy. There is another bang and a crash before all the noise stops with a sharp snap and Red realizes that she’s closed a door somewhere. 

“Sorry about that,” and her voice is back, still a little breathless but very pleasant nonetheless. “I just had to get somewhere quiet.”

“It’s no problem,” he says easily. “Are you on set somewhere?”

“Hmm?” she asks, sounding a little distracted. “Oh, no, I’m not working on anything right now. It’s just a quiet day at home today.”

(It doesn’t sound very quiet to Red.)

“I start working again in two weeks though,” she continues, oblivious to his worry. “On that rom-com we’re doing! I’m so excited for that, it should be fun!”

“Yes, I think so,” he answers awkwardly, wondering how to bring up the subject of their kiss scene. But she’s gotten them this far. It’s only fair that he does the rest. “Actually, Lizzie, that’s why I called.”

“About the movie?”

“Yes. Have you read the script?”

“Yeah! I blew through it last night with a cup of coffee. It’s so cute!” she chirps. She sounds so happy. Maybe she accidentally skipped the kiss scene? 

“It is, that’s true, but…” How the hell does he bring this up?

“What’s wrong, Red?” she asks gently. “Don’t you want to do the film?”

“Of course I do, Lizzie, that’s not it,” he reassures her, annoyed with himself. “I’m just wondering if you’re…comfortable with everything we have to do.”

“Everything we have to…” she trails off and pauses for a minute, thinking hard. “Oh! Do you mean the kiss?”

“Yes,” he gasps, so thankful she finally got there on her own. “Yes, I mean the kiss. Is that something you’re comfortable with?”

Lizzie pauses again but this time not in thought. He can sense her confusion. “Well, yes, of course. It’s only a kiss, after all, and…well, it’s you,” she says simply. He is touched by her obvious trust in him. 

(She has no idea how he feels.)

“All right,” he says, a little torn between feeling happy and nauseous with nerves. “All right, then. I just wanted to check.”

“That’s so sweet of you, thank you,” she says kindly. There is a beat of silence. “Are _you_ comfortable with this, Red?”

He blinks, completely taken aback. Is he? He pictures her beautiful blue eyes, her dark hair, her beautiful, red lips touching his – 

“Yes, of course, Lizzie.”

(He’s so weak.)

* * *

After that discussion, time flies by towards the day he is craving and dreading in equal measure. Filming starts and goes as smoothly as ever, thanks to a combination of Red and Liz’s easy chemistry and their habit of snapping into character once the call is made. And, before they know it, the last day of filming is here. The day they film the kiss. 

(Red can’t help feeling that this is a day that will change things forever.)

He’s nervous, pacing around set, in his costume and makeup of street clothes and some powder, waiting for Lizzie to arrive. She naturally takes longer in makeup, since she’s a woman and social convention states that she requires more (although Red is firm in his private belief that she doesn’t need any at all), and it’s a few minutes of wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and trying to slow his hammering heart before she finally shows up.

(This could be so bad.)

At long last, he sees her escorted onto set by her assistant, looking perfectly made-up in her simple costume of street clothes similar to his, just jeans and a pretty blouse.

(She’s perfect.)

Red watches her cast a glance around the room – looking for him, he thinks with a thrill – and she sees him right away, smiling and heading towards him with purpose.

(He just hopes he doesn’t pass out.)

“Hi,” she chirps, stopping in front of him with a little bounce, somehow startling Red even though he stood there and watched her come. 

“Hi,” he croaks, his voice a little worse for wear. 

“Are you ready?” she asks, an eyebrow raising teasingly.

(If only she knew.)

He clears his throat in an effort to get himself together. “As I’ll ever be,” he mutters, managing to smirk at her and make her giggle.

“Okay, places!” he hears the call and his heart lurches in his chest.

Lizzie grins at him and turns to walk towards the three-walled room built for this scene, looking back to make sure he’s following.

(Oh god.)

“Are _you_?” he asks, mostly trying to distract himself. 

“Oh, sure,” she says happily. “I’m going to kiss my co-star. What’s there to be ready for?”

And for some reason her words send a rush of calm through him. She’s right. What’s there to be ready for? This is Lizzie, the woman he’s in love with, yes, but more importantly, his co-star. They trust each other. This will be fine. 

And he feels ready now, turning away from Lizzie and taking his place by the fake window as the crew quickly works to adjust the lighting and their director takes his place behind the camera.

“Okay,” he calls loudly. “Lights? Camera? Action!”

And with that familiar call, Red immediately snaps into character, becoming a frustrated middle-aged man arguing with his younger female friend, jealousy permeating the air between them, desperation and undisclosed love obvious on their faces.

(The accuracy of the roles won’t hit him until later. These parts were made for them.)

He hears Liz move around behind him, always attuned to her presence. 

“Well, Kenneth, what do you expect me to do? Break up with him or something?” Lizzie snaps, no longer really his Lizzie, fully transformed into the short-tempered, passionate Ginger written in the script.

“Yes!” he barks, fully feeling Ken and his unrequited love for Ginger. “Yes, that’s exactly what I expect you to do, Ginger! He’s not good for you!”

“Oh, and you are?”

He whirls around to face her, being hit full force with the blazing anger in her eyes, flaming sapphires boring into him. 

(Something in him thrills.)

“That’s neither here nor there,” he snaps, waving his hand angrily. “You shouldn’t be with him, that’s all I know.”

Liz steps closer to him and he moves forward to match her, the tension palpable, building in between them.

“And how do you know that?” she spits, her eyes narrowing as she nears him.

He tingles in anticipation, stepping closer to her, his voice lowering but the intensity increasing as they get closer. “Because I know you, Gin. I know you so much better than he ever will. I know what makes you smile and laugh and cry. And I care, Ginger. I care about you. You’re my friend and I only want the best for you. Do you know why?”

Ginger’s eyes are wide now, looking up at him, seeing him clearly for the first time. “Why, Ken?”

“Because I love you.”

There is a beat of stillness and silence between them, their eyes boring into one another, their posture frozen and tense, but then they lean forward at the same time and their lips touch and everything is different.

Yes, Ken is finally expressing his love for Ginger and she is finally accepting it but Red is finally showing his love for Lizzie and she can finally feel it, and their lips caressing each other’s, passionate but gentle, her arms around his neck and his hands around her waist. 

(And its truly movie magic, something special, and if their eyes were open, they would see the crew watching them open-mouthed, something about the two of them captivating everyone. The rest of the world is next.)

The kiss ends naturally, their mouths slowing, turning from desperate gulps to slow, small sipping kisses, their mouths parting, stopping just far enough away that their noses touch. Red opens his eyes before her and gets to see the faint smile on her face before she opens her eyes to stare up at him, and he feels deliriously like he’s drowning in the blue of her eyes. So, he leans forward to press his forehead to hers to ground himself and they look at each other for an instant before – 

“Cut!”

And the world shatters between them and they snap fully back to themselves, Red and Lizzie, no longer Ken and Ginger, who will be immortalized on screen for everyone to see.

(The people they truly are.)

“I think we got it people, one take! Great job, you two! That’s a wrap!”

The crew starts to clap and cheer but Red stays staring at Lizzie, who is transforming before his eyes. The contentedness of that last scene is leaving her face, melting off her like wax, leaving only some cold, hard emotion in its place. Red has seen her horror acting enough to know fear when he sees it. Everything seems to hit her all at once and she pulls away from him in a sudden jerky movement, like he’s burned her, that fear over-taking her eyes, closing her off from him. 

“Lizzie –”

But what can he say?

(Nothing that isn’t true.)

“I, um, no, I’m – I have to go…”

And she’s turning and leaving him, hurrying away, scared of him, scared of what she felt between them and there’s nothing Red can do but watch her go.

(This isn’t a movie. There is no happy ending.)

* * *

The following weeks go by in a miserable blur, the release date and premiere arriving in a haze of darkness. Red attends, again only because he must, and he and Lizzie avoid each other studiously. The press absolutely adores the film, with audible gasps in the audience when their fateful kiss appears on screen. 

(Red has to turn away.)

The film is a triumph, thanks to Ken and Ginger’s wonderfully relatable love story, and Red derives absolutely no pleasure from their success. It doesn’t matter if literally every other person on Earth think he and Lizzie should be together.

(She doesn’t.)

Red notes briefly that Tom hasn’t accompanied Lizzie to the premiere and he tries not to read too much into it. What does it matter anyway? Red stays the absolute minimum amount of time at the premiere, not even having a drink before he’s slinking back to his limo like an injured animal going to lick his wounds.

(He doesn’t see Lizzie gazing strangely after him.)

Red takes a “well-deserved break”, as his agent calls it, after their “success”, as everyone else calls it. He mopes around his home, missing Lizzie and everything they had. The easy friendship, the antics on set, the sparks when filming. 

(He misses his co-star.) 

But it’s not long into his self-imposed asylum that his agent sends him a script via email, asking him to look it over. Red doesn’t really want to but his agent bugs him about it until he finally flops down at his computer in defeat, struggling to open his email account and summon the correct message, downloading the attached script with some difficulty.

(One thing hasn’t changed: he’s still not good with computers.)

His tired eyes scan the screen without any real interest, mechanically picking out keywords to get an idea of the story. He’ll be playing George Rickers, a middle-aged, suburban husband and father to daughter, Charlotte, played by –

Elizabeth Keen.

Everything in him screeches to a stop with a sickly jerk, his eyes blinking rapidly at the screen, trying to comprehend what he’s seeing and think past the violent churning in his stomach.

_Father?_

No. 

No, no, no. 

(Nothing has ever felt more wrong.)

Red calls his agent at once and tells her to turn down the part. He doesn’t answer any of her questions, just tells her that under no circumstances will he be accepting the role. 

(That’s something he can never bring himself to do.)

After that, Red throws himself head-first back into his bad habits and routine of just…existing. He doesn’t expect he’ll ever work with Lizzie again. Not after her response to their kiss. There’s no way they can be together now. And who knows? Maybe he’s done with acting, maybe he should retire. 

(It wasn’t nearly this bad when Carla divorced him.)

But it’s one of these hopeless rainy nights (that he’s proud of himself for merely showering and eating that day) that he’s sitting slumped in his favorite armchair in his dark townhouse, night having fallen long since he sat down, with no real urge to get up and turn on a light. He’s sitting nursing a glass of scotch and listening to the rain fall on the roof above his head when he suddenly hears a knock on his apartment door. 

Red blinks in surprise. What the hell? No one ever comes to his door, rainy night or otherwise. But he has an odd feeling that he should answer it so, after a moment of frozen confusion, he gets up and shuffles to the front door. He has no peephole to look through so he can only take a deep breath in preparation before he pulls open the door to reveal – 

_Lizzie._

He feels his mouth fall open unattractively but he can’t help it. He just stares at her, standing there on his doorstep, luckily shielded from the rain by the awning but still dripping wet from wherever she was before this, her hair even darker than it usually is, hanging in limp strands to frame her pale face, her eyes standing out like ocean sapphires.

(She’s just as gorgeous as he remembers.)

He’s still staring like an idiot when he suddenly sees her shiver, her arms coming up to wrap around herself. 

“Hi, Red,” she breathes. “Do you think I could come in?”

Red shakes himself out of his frozen state with effort and nods hurriedly. 

“Yes, yes, of course, I’m sorry, Lizzie, come in,” he steps aside and lets her pass him, a shiver of his own running through him as she goes.

Red quickly shuts the front door and jogs to his bathroom to get a clean, dry towel for her hair and returns in a flash to usher her into his living room. He automatically gestures for her to sit but she shakes her head a little distractedly, staring at the floor as she mechanically dries the ends of her hair with his towel.

He tries to wait for her to speak – she’s the one who just appeared on his doorstep, after all – but her general lack of expression is worrying him.

“Lizzie, are you alright?” he can’t help but ask.

She looks up, a little startled by his gentle question, but doesn’t answer. She stops drying her hair, leaving the towel draped over her shoulder while her hands drift down to her sides. She paces slowly away from him, stopping in front of the large window overlooking the cityscape. Red drinks in her profile, framed dramatically by the rain running in rivulets on the other side of the dark glass. 

(What a scene this would make.)

“You turned down the part.”

It’s not a question but he can hear the uncertainty in her voice, prompting something from him. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut briefly at the inevitable question, not knowing how to answer her. Instead he sidesteps and asks her a question in return.

“Are you upset?”

“No,” she abruptly turns to face him. “I wasn’t going to take it either.”

“Why?” he blurts, shocked, before he can stop himself, wincing as he realizes he’s asking her the very question he didn’t answer. Not exactly fair. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She floats back towards him across his living room, her brow furrowing in thought.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Something about it…didn’t feel right. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” 

(Completely.)

“Is that why you didn’t take it?”

“Yes.”

(Entirely.)

She nods thoughtfully. “I thought so.” She grows quiet after that but now she’s looking at him instead of out the window and he still doesn’t know why she’s here.

“Lizzie?” he prompts her again and her eyes fly back to his.

“Tom said I should take it,” she says suddenly.

Red feels a wave of burning hate for her manipulating husband. 

“He was quite nasty about it, actually,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “He said that’s the way it should be between us, that’s the relationship we should be portraying on screen, family, not lovers.”

Red feels his stomach fall through the floor. That poisonous little – 

His only consolation is Lizzie’s face, which has furrowed back into that frown he can’t stand, signaling her disagreement with Tom’s statement.

“I felt so sick when he said that,” she continues quietly, shaking her head. “But that’s not the first time he’s been like that. He hated the fact that we kissed in our last movie. He was ridiculously jealous.”

She sighs, looking so tired, turning to pace away from him. 

“It’s stupid, really. I was so affronted, at first. He didn’t have any reason to feel jealous or threatened. You’re my co-star, my friend, a kind man, and I never…” But then she lowers her head self-consciously and something in her changes. “But then we kissed and…well, then he had a reason.”

Red blinks in shock.

(A small flicker of hope lights inside of him.)

“But he was awful about it and I can never forgive him for that. And I’m really here to apologize to you. And ask for your forgiveness.”

Lizzie looks up into his eyes all of a sudden and Red is taken aback by the fierceness he sees there. 

“After we kissed…Well, I was over-whelmed and confused by what I was feeling and I needed time to think,” she murmurs before laughing suddenly, surprising Red. “Turns out I didn’t need to do too much thinking. It was pretty obvious, really. And Tom just helped me decide, the exact opposite of what he intended to do. So, now I’m here to tell you.”

“Tell me what, Lizzie?” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken in a few minutes and he feels it in his throat, all scratchy and scared, but she hears him just fine. And he will never truly believe the words she says next.

“I’m in love with you.”

And finally, finally all the pieces fall into place and here they are and not much is fixed except everything and he can’t believe she came to him in the rain like one of their ridiculous rom-coms but the difference is this isn’t a movie. 

This is real life.

And it’s so much better.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried something different with this prompt which I think requires a little pre-reading explanation. Since the prompt was that the characters dream of their soulmate’s day, I structed this so that the regular font is one daytime event in either Red or Liz’s POV, starting with Liz. Then, after a line break, the following italics section is other half’s corresponding dream, in which they watch the previous event through the eyes of the other. This continues, switching perspectives, until Red and Liz finally come together after seeing each other in their dreams. I’m aware that this is something different and potentially confusing, so I’d appreciate any feedback you can give me regarding how easy this was to follow, if you’ve got the time! As always, thank you for reading!

**All of your dreams are your soulmate’s most significant memories from that given day.**

“White chocolate macchiato!”

Liz ignores the call of the barista, her own hot coffee sitting on her table by her elbow, as she scribbles notes in the margins of the psychology essay she’s grading. Sloppy transitions, hasty presentation of psychological evidence, barely proving their point, citations formatted incorrectly. Another all-nighter essay. She’ll have to give her psych 101 class a talking to. Again.

“Blueberry muffin!”

Liz makes it to the end of the last essay on her pile – finally – and hastily checks her watch. 1:52pm. She needs to leave now if she’s going to make her 2:15pm lecture. It doesn’t set a good example to be late for her graduate level profiling class. She doesn’t want them getting any ideas.

“Soy almond latte!”

Liz stuffs the graded essays in her bag and throws it over her shoulder, snatching her phone from the table and grabbing her now cold coffee as an afterthought. She takes a look outside – drizzling again – and pulls the hood of her jacket up over her hair. The grey sky outside seems to match her mood. 

She tosses her half-empty coffee cup in the trashcan on her way out the door.

* * *

_“White chocolate macchiato!”_

_Red sees a pale, freckled hand race across a page of type, leaving written critique in neat red print with no hesitation. He feels the writer’s head shake in disapproval, her annoyance radiating through them in waves._

_“Blueberry muffin!”_

_The pale hand writes a final note and a rather poor grade at the end of the last essay and tilts the hand slightly to look at the small, delicate wristwatch strapped there. The writer’s heart stutters a little in their chest as they see the time, interrupting the secondhand relief Red felt at finishing the essays. They need to get to class on time._

_“Soy almond latte!”_

_The capable hands tuck the stack of papers into a folder, clearly labeled as “Psych 101”, which gets slotted into place in a messenger bag between a laptop and a heavy criminal profiling textbook. The professor stands with their bag, phone, and coffee and turns to see rain falling outside. They feel melancholy and resigned at the sight. The pale hands tug their jacket hood over their head._

_The half-full coffee cup is tossed easily in the trash on their way out the door._

* * *

“Cover, take cover!”

Red ducks behind the overturned van, feeling Dembe on his heels, the men across the field continuing fire, the bang of their shots sounding around them. He reloads his weapon in a hurry, wanting to be ready to move as soon as possible. 

“This reminds me of Kazakhstan.”

Red hears Dembe murmur beside him, finished reloading his own weapon already. He hums in amusement, shooting Dembe a grin. The situation is similar except for a few important details.

“We were on active duty then.”

Dembe nods in acquiescence. Then they look at each other for a moment and, by some silent and invisible communication born from years of working together in the military, they leap out from behind the paint-splotched van, returning fire to their competitors, the paint balls landing squarely on their target’s chests.

Red and Dembe crow in victory.

* * *

_“Cover, take cover!”_

_Liz sees a pair of quick feet hurry behind a colorful, painted van. She feels the runner sit down heavily behind it and then look down at strong, tan hands clutching a large, black gun. The shots from their enemies echo in the air around them. The capable hands begin to reload the weapon in a complicated series of quick movements that are too quick for Liz to fully understand._

_“This reminds me of Kazakhstan.”_

_Liz feels a warm rush of amusement and fondness towards the owner of the voice even though, when the runner’s head turns toward them, she doesn’t recognize the face. She feels a hum in the runner’s chest and their face breaks into a grin._

_“We were on active duty then.”_

_The unknown but cherished face nods and there is an instant of communication between the dark man and the Liz’s runner before they jump out from behind the van, fluid and completely in sync, returning paint ball fire before their competitors can take cover._

_The two men yell in victory._

* * *

“Excuse me!”

The normal hustle and bustle is there in the café as Liz pushes the door open, the small bell above her head tinkling to announce her arrival. She heads to the counter, joining the short queue waiting to place their orders. 

“Medium hot coffee, cream and sugar, and a macadamia nut cookie, please.” 

The barista nods and hurries off to fill Liz’s order. Liz wanders off to the side of the register to wait and as she does, her gaze wanders too. It happens to land on a man in a booth. Not an uncommon sight in a café like this but there’s something about this man that makes Liz stare. 

“Hot coffee and macadamia cookie!”

Liz jumps in surprise and quickly takes her order before making her way to her normal booth, which happens to be directly in front of the mystery man. She gets a good look at him at she passes and his hands in particular look strangely familiar. She takes her seat with a certain sense of satisfaction. Now she can stare and look somewhat conspicuous about it. After all, he is very handsome. Older, suave, well-dressed. Reading a newspaper while drinking an herbal tea and nibbling on a blueberry scone. How very interesting.

She stays long enough to finish her coffee today.

* * *

_“Excuse me!”_

_Red sees a pair of pale hands push open the worn, red door to a quaint café, a high-pitched bell ringing somewhere above his head. The owner of the pale hands heads right for the counter on the opposite side of the room to order. Red hears the person speak in a clear, pleasant voice._

_“Medium hot coffee, cream and sugar, and a macadamia nut cookie, please.”_

_Red watches the busy barista, hair starting to slip loose from her braid, hurry off. The owner of the lovely voice and pale hands moves nearer the table and chairs to await their coffee and cookie but remains standing. He feels their head turn as they glance to an occupied booth. Red feels a jolt go through him, a very real in his own body that is lying asleep in his bed, as he recognizes_ himself. 

_“Hot coffee and macadamia cookie!”_

_Red feels his startle response both in his dream body and in his real one at the unexpected words. The pale hands reappear in his line of vision as they take the coffee cup and small bag and then they move to an unoccupied booth, glancing down at Red as they go by. Completely in shock, Red can feel the pleasure of the person with the pretty voice and hands at being able to watch his past self eat and drink unnoticed. Red can feel their interest and attraction equally inside of them._

_They stay long enough to finish their coffee that day._

And when Red wakes, it is daytime, and it’s with a sense of certainty that he’s never felt before. Because he knows where to find his soulmate. And he will meet her today.

* * *

“All right, I’ll see you later!”

Red bids Dembe goodbye and enters the café, feeling a certain sense of déjà vu as he watches his hand push open the red door just as he watched his soulmate’s hand do the same thing the night before. Dembe came with him this far for moral support but, even so, Red’s nervous as hell. After all, today is the day he meets his soulmate. With a deep breath that does nothing to calm him, he looks toward the booth he sat in during his dream last night. And there she is, her head propped in her hand – that pale, strikingly familiar hand – staring at him. It shocks him to finally see her face – she’s so _beautiful_ – and he’s confused for a moment as to why she’s looking at him like she knows him. But then it occurs to him that she saw herself in her dreams last night too. All in a rush, he remembers now that he’d glanced at her yesterday, noted her pretty face and deep concentration on the papers in front of her (all an act, he realizes now) and simply left, completely unaware of her significance. And she saw it all last night. So, she knows him now too. It’s that thought that propels him forward to stand in front of her.

“Is this seat taken?”

It’s a stupid, cheesy thing to say and he wants to take it back the moment he hears himself say it, but she laughs so he supposes it’s all right. She smiles prettily at him and pushes something across the table in answer. He glances down – noting the considerable effort it takes to tear his eyes away from her gorgeous blue ones – and sees an herbal tea like the one he was drinking yesterday. He blinks in surprise. She paid attention. Of course she did, he thinks with an internal roll of his eyes, she’s a psychologist. He should know after all. He’s been fascinated by watching her study and write and grade every night for the last ten years. At his dumb stare, she slides a blueberry scone across the table with her other hand. He feels his heart stutter with something that can only be described as pure adoration. 

“I’m Liz.”

Lizzie. She’s finally here. And she’s perfect.

* * *

Liz sees herself again in her dreams that night.

_“All right, see you later!”_

_She watches as he, Raymond, she now knows, says goodbye to Dembe, his nearest and dearest friend, as she learned today. She experiences his nervousness – he hadn’t looked nervous at all today – and how he was struck breathless at the sight of her – he’d told her she was beautiful and_ he’d meant it _– and his realization at the fact that she knows him. How they both know in that instant that they are soulmates._

_“Is this seat taken?”_

_Liz can feel his exasperation with himself at the line he’d just spouted and sees her own amusement written all over her face. She’d thought it was adorable. She’s taken aback by the way he instantly loves her eyes and the fact that he’s so touched she bought him tea and a scone brings tears to her eyes under her closed, sleeping lids._

_“I’m Liz.”_

_And the rush of pure love he feels at her two simple words, a feeling matching her own in that moment, something he’s surely discovering now in his own dreams, has her crying in full force, waking herself up with tears of joy._

And when her eyes open, she is instantly comforted, the tears drying quickly on her face. Because she knows she isn’t alone anymore. She’s found her soulmate. And she’s dreaming in his arms tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**29\. going away to war au**

Seagulls cry as they whirl around the masts of a tall ship, moored but never truly stationary, ever moving with the ocean waves. It is on this dock that two figures stand, quite stationary, in stark comparison to the active scene around them. One is dressed in navy whites while the other wears air force green. Sailors scurry around the two, hurrying to and from the ship, but not without first stopping to salute the man in white. He acknowledges them all, professional to a tee, but his focus remains on the striking woman in green. 

They’ve been standing there for some time, not speaking, just looking at each other. The man, for his part, is observing how the vast expanse of the sky matches her baby blue eyes. They practically blend into the air around them, only discernable with the startling contrast of her pale face and dark hair.

(She has always belonged in the sky.)

The woman is doing much the same, taking her time in trying to identify every color in the man’s mostly green eyes, emphasized by his navy whites, finding as many shades in them as there are in the waters of the ocean.

(He has always belonged on the sea.)

They stand here now, having each been called up to defend their respective portions of their country, the daunting sky and the raging sea. He, captain of a navy vessel, and her, star pilot in the air force. The war has showed no signs of stopping and their future has never been more uncertain.

“You’ll be safe?” Liz asks, the first to break the silent bubble they’ve been wrapped in.

“As safe as I can be,” Red answers quietly after a moment, as honest as he can be, upholding a promise he made never to lie to her. “And you?”

Liz gives him a small smile. “The same,” she quirks an eyebrow. “Mostly.”

The corners of Red’s mouth twitch. “Try not to do too many barrel rolls.”

Liz chuckles. “I’ll do my best.” She returns then to gazing into his eyes, regaining her earlier rapt attention. “And I’ll keep a weather eye on the horizon.”

Red nods slowly. “And I’ll think of you at every sunset,” he murmurs quietly, and Liz’s throat tightens.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers, all she can offer him without wrecking her fought-for composure.

It is enough. He steps forward, heedless of the sailors milling around on the dock and on the deck of the ship, enfolding her in his strong arms. She hugs him back fiercely and they remain like this for a long moment, holding each other.

(They said their real goodbyes last night, tangled in the sheets, trading tears and kisses, words of adoration and declarations of love whispered between them. But those things are theirs, and theirs alone, not to be shared with the sailors and seagulls around them.)

They pull back from each other by silent, mutual agreement, both their eyes a little damp, working to pull themselves together. It takes but a moment.

“I’ll see you,” says Liz, strong again, squaring her shoulders in that display of strength and fortitude that Red is always in awe of. 

“I’ll see you,” he agrees, tucking his white hat under his arm out of habit, shifting into sea captain mode, making Lizzie’s eyes twinkle in amusement and appreciation. 

They don’t specify a time when they will see each other next. Not “soon” or “later.” Because there is simply no guarantee of that. It’s the harsh reality they live with each and every day. 

(And, if the worst happened, they would both be comforted by the fact that they have loved each other with their whole selves and no regrets. Their whole hearts.)

So, with one last, searching look at Red, Liz nods and pivots on the spot, striding to the car parked off the dock, the one he drove here and the one she will drive away to the airfield. Red takes a moment to watch her go, her back straight and her confidence pulled like a cape around her, and then he turns to walk up the gangplank to his ship, without a glance over his shoulder.

(Because later, he tapes a picture of her to the window in the bridge, right above the ship’s wheel, so he can think of her as he gazes out to sea, steering his vessel into battle. And at the same time, a hundred miles away, Liz is taping a picture of him to the windshield in the cockpit of her fighter jet, so she can think of him as she flies high in the air, confronting enemies in the sky.

They are two halves of one whole. She is the sky and he is the sea.)

And they will see each other again. 

When the war is over.


	7. Chapter 7

**36\. living in a society where their love is taboo au**

A cold breeze rustles the dry leaves in the trees around the settlement and a wooden door slams shut somewhere in the distance, startling the women hurrying through the dark. She pauses for a moment, frightened into immobility, before slowly creeping forward again, keeping to the shadows of the wooden buildings that make up the town. She’s heading towards the empty barn that sits on the perimeter of clearing, right before the dark, imposing tree line takes over. There is someone waiting for her behind the barn, on the widest side, in the dark. 

Elizabeth is meeting her lover. 

And she can’t be seen.

Elizabeth breathes a sigh of relief as she cuts across the last foot of the clearing, now fully in the darkness and out of the ring of torch light that encircles the town, coming around the corner of the barn to see him standing there.

Raymond.

He is looking the other way, pacing restlessly in the dark, but when he hears her rustling skirts, he whips around. He lets out a ragged gasp as he sees her and rushes forward to meet her, grabbing her outstretched forearms as soon as he can reach them and pulling her roughly against his body. She lets out her breath in a rush as her body hits his. 

“Elizabeth,” he breathes, his face suddenly very close to hers, his eyes burning.

And then he’s kissing her, desperately, greedily, just this side of too rough, his mouth working over hers like a madman. And she’s meeting him kiss for kiss, driven as crazy as he is by this burning, sizzling helplessness between them, some mix of want and frustration and _fear_.

They could be killed for this.

Raymond rips his mouth from hers with a groan, only because of a physical necessity for air, something he would avoid if he could. Her hands remain gripping his dress shirt beneath his waistcoat, where no wrinkles will be visible, and his arms only tighten around her waist. Not for the first time, Elizabeth curses her corset, laced tight beneath her layers of skirts, preventing him from pressing closer to her.

“Raymond,” she whispers, leaning forward to press her forehead helplessly to his, overcome.

He raises a hand to gently cup her head, feeling her smooth hair under his fingers, being careful not to dishevel her formal up-do.

“Damn these infernal rules!” Raymond hisses, startling Elizabeth, suddenly unable to contain his rage.

“Why can’t we go before the council, Raymond? There must be something we can do!” Elizabeth strokes his neck, serving to both soothe and inflame him in equal measure.

“Because I am _on_ the council, Elizabeth,” he growls, not angry at her, only their predicament, frustration evident in his voice. “I _am_ a councilman,” he mutters, the anger fading as soon as it came, leaving him exhausted and hopeless. “And, by the ancient laws of this town, decrepit councilmen are not allowed to touch unmarried maidens.”

It is Elizabeth’s turn to attempt to control her temper, her voice coming out in a forced hiss, attempting to stay quiet despite her anger. “You’re the youngest councilman in the history of this town, Raymond, not an eighty-year-old lech! And I’m not a young girl blinded by first love, I’m well past thirty! It’s not my fault that Thomas died of an infection before we were actually married! Besides, what could they possibly do to us that we couldn’t face?”

“They’ll exile me in a second, I’ll be thrown out into the woods with no way to fend for myself, and –” Raymond squeezes his eyes shut at the thought of what they would do to Elizabeth. “If they found out you were complicit, Elizabeth, they… they would kill you.”

Elizabeth feels a pang in her heart at his obvious pain, not sparing a thought for her potential fate, and a fierce rush of protectiveness and defiance soon follow. She grips his arms tightly, staring into his eyes. 

“I don’t care! I’d rather die a thousand deaths than be kept from you!”

Raymond huffs a rueful laugh despite himself, gazing in wonder at her fierce expression. “Elizabeth…soft, then hard, then soft again…”

And he leans in to kiss her, unable to help himself, his lips once again moving helplessly over hers. Elizabeth breaks it off after an aching moment, however, while staying close enough that their noses touch.

“What if we ran away, Raymond?” she whispers, an edge to her voice that he’s never heard before. “What if we just leave, get away from this cursed town and their ridiculous laws, and _just leave_?”

The last two words catch in her throat, sudden tears and sorrow overcoming her, and Raymond is tucking her head underneath his chin and gently shushing her. 

“We can’t leave, Elizabeth, we wouldn’t make it far…they’d make sure of it.” 

She gives a little hiccup at his words and he rubs her back, trying to sooth, but it’s not long before she pulls back again, wiping uselessly at her eyes. “This will never work, will it?”

Raymond gives her a long searching look, the reality of it punching him in the gut, tears gathering in his own eyes at the sensation. “No, Elizabeth. This must end.” 

She closes her eyes in dismay at his words, the ones she knew were coming, and turns to leave in a swish of skirts and tears.

Raymond feels his heart seize in panic. He can’t lose her, no matter what the council decrees. Losing her would mean losing the best part of himself.

“Elizabeth,” he whispers to her back, unable to stop himself from taking a step or two after her. “Elizabeth, wait!”

She slows to a stop and turns her head slightly, a sign that she’s still listening, her hand covering her mouth to stifle her sobs.

“…I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Elizabeth is frozen for a moment before she hangs her head, feeling the truth of the matter in her bones. She can’t stay away from him any more than he can stay away from her. She gives one brief nod before she’s around the corner of the barn and gone. 

Raymond falls against the side of the old building, an odd weight pushing him over, something that feels strangely like inevitability. 

They are doomed.


	8. Chapter 8

**22\. two miserable people meeting at a wedding au**

“I now declare you husband and wife!”

The wedding guests cheer and Liz joins them reluctantly, managing with considerable difficulty not to roll her eyes.

Long live the happy couple, Liz thinks with disgust.

She watches as Tom, her cheating ex-husband, and Jolene, the home-wrecker he cheated with, turn to beam at the guests in their folding chairs. They raise their linked hands in celebration before walking up the makeshift aisle of their backyard wedding. Liz personally thinks it’s a little sloppy, but she supposes they had to go cheap, considering it’s Tom’s second wedding. 

And Jolene’s third. 

Liz stands with the friends and family of the bride and groom, watching and listening as they break off into groups and gush about the new couple, leaving Liz feeling very much like an outsider. If it hadn’t been for the frilly invitation she received in the mail, written in Jolene’s girlish handwriting – seriously, what self-respecting female over the age of fourteen draws little hearts over their i’s? – than Liz wouldn’t have come to this stupid excuse for a wedding at all. 

But she does have a sense of dignity. 

And the invitation was clearly a taunt from Jolene, who took far too much pride in stealing Tom away from her when she was about ready to get a divorce anyway, and Liz couldn’t stand thinking of her smug expression as she put the invitation in the mail, fully expecting Liz to make some half-hearted excuse and not show up.

Over Liz’s dead body.

So, to prove a point, Liz decided to don her short, blue dress, complete with silver heels and matching clutch, and go to her ex-husband’s second wedding.

Without a plus one of her own.

And now she needs the bar.

Liz works her way through the small crowd, now milling around in the large backyard, waiting patiently for their turn to congratulate the newlyweds. Liz suppresses a scoff at the thought of standing in front of Tom and Jolene, gritting her teeth and plastering a smile on her face, and gives them a wide berth, heading instead to the large table set up under the oak tree at the back of the yard that is serving as the bar.

Liz is evidently the first guest with this idea, causing the bored-looking bartender manning the table to straighten up as she approaches.

“What can I get you?” he asks genially.

But before Liz can answer, a man is sidling up to the bar next to her, looking almost as miserable as she feels, leaning both arms on the table and not waiting for the bartender to ask.

“Double scotch on the rocks.”

Liz’s eyebrows raise at the curt order, but the bartender doesn’t seem taken aback. He just nods quickly and turns back to her. 

“And for you, ma’am?”

“An aviation cocktail, please.”

The bartender nods once again and goes off to make their drinks. Liz glances over at the man who so rudely took the attention of the bartender away from her. He is handsome, middle-aged, and well-dressed in a grey suit and blue tie. 

(His tie matches her dress. What a weird coincidence.)

And he’s looking at her. 

“Aviation cocktail, huh?” he says to her. “Good choice.”

“Thanks,” she says back, surprised that he’s talking to her. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

He nods in easy agreement. “Tastes like spring, doesn’t it?”

Liz smiles despite herself. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I’d go for a scotch like you, I could certainly use it, but hard liquor tends to go straight to my head.”

The man turns fully to face her, his face brightening as he takes her in. “Mine too,” he agrees. “But, in this situation, I couldn’t ask for anything better. This is the last place I want to be.”

“Ha!” Liz barks a sarcastic laugh. “Join the club.”

The bartender returns then with their drinks, a small glass with amber liquid for the man and a tall wine glass with crimson liquid in it for Liz.

The two of them go straight for the alcohol by unspoken agreement, postponing their conversation for a moment. It’s only when Liz has taken several grateful gulps from her glass and the man has downed half his scotch that he turns back to her.

“I bet I have it worse than you,” he says ruefully, raising his eyebrow in challenge.

“Oh yeah?” Liz can feel hysterical giggles beginning to bubble up in her chest. “Wanna bet?”

The man chuckles in response. “Sure, what’ll it be? Another drink?”

“Deal,” Liz says immediately. She’ll need all the alcohol she can get her hands on. “You first.”

“Okay,” the man says, obviously confident. “I’m a former co-worker of the groom’s mother. The last time I saw her was about…ten years ago. And today’s the first day I’ve clapped eyes on her son. I truly don’t know why I was invited, I think it may have been a mistake.”

Liz nods sympathetically. “That’s rough,” she allows, and he nods solemnly. “But I think I’ve got you beat.”

His eyebrows simply raise in question. “Do your worst.”

“I’m the scorned ex-wife of the groom.”

He winces immediately, his confident expression melting off his face in an instant. “Oh dear,” he murmurs. “And the bride, is she –?

“The woman he left me for? One and the same.”

“Ah,” he grimaces. “Yes, you win, hands down. Another cocktail, please!” he calls down the bar to the now busy bartender, who nods in acknowledgement. “Why did you come then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Liz shrugs. “There’s no secret to it. What would I look like if I didn’t show up to my ex-husband’s second wedding, which I was explicitly invited to in what would seem a gesture of good faith?”

“Petty and weak?”

“Bingo,” Liz says, draining her glass and pushing it towards the other side of the bar. “Even if the aforementioned ‘gesture of good faith’ is actually a cruel jab from the vindictive new wife.”

The man nods unhappily. “A rock and a hard place,” he murmurs sympathetically. 

(A handsome man who sees her plight. At her ex-husband’s wedding. How unusual.)

The bartender reappears to slide a fresh cocktail towards Liz, whisking away the empty glass without a word. 

“Hence, the alcohol,” Liz says with a grin that feels more like a grimace, raising her glass to the kind man who just bought her the drink. “Thank you, by the way.”

“It’s my pleasure, uh…?” he trails off, clearing asking for Liz’s name. 

She swallows her mouthful before hastening to answer. “Liz.”

“Lizzie,” he finishes with a kind smile. “I only wish I could do more.”

It’s at that moment that the DJ starts up, playing some god awful, gag-worthy romance song as Tom and Jolene take to the small square of the yard that’s been designated the dance floor. Liz can’t stop herself from actually rolling her eyes this time, taking another sip of her drink to fortify herself. 

The mystery man at the bar next to her watches the dancing couple for a moment before looking down thoughtfully at his own glass. Liz watches as he comes to some sort of decision before he throws back the remainder of his scotch in one smooth gesture and turns to her.

“Actually, perhaps I can,” he says tentatively. “May I ask you to dance, Lizzie?”

Liz blinks in surprise, looking curiously at his outstretched hand and then back to his earnest eyes.

(Maybe she should trust this handsome, understanding man with the blue tie. He can’t be worse than Tom. And she has a good feeling about him.)

“Yes, I think you can, uh…?” she trails off the same way he did, asking for his name. 

“Raymond,” he supplies helpfully.

“Raymond,” she smiles. “I think that would be nice.”

Liz sets her half empty cocktail on the bar and takes Raymond’s waiting hand, letting herself be escorted to the dancefloor by a man who clearly isn’t her cheating ex-husband.

Maybe this stupid excuse for a wedding won’t be so bad.

And maybe she won’t need as much alcohol as she thinks. 

Because maybe she has a plus one after all.


	9. Chapter 9

**25\. librarian/avid reader au**

Red flops into his chair at the circulation desk, just back from stocking shelves in the history section, and glances over to the empty tables near the science shelves. Then he adjusts his black-rimmed glasses and glances at his watch. And he sighs. 

She’s late today.

Every day for the past five years, Red has worked here at the library. And every day for the past five months, Red has been observing the most beautiful woman.

She comes in every weekday, Monday through Friday, and sits at the table near the window in the science section. The first day she came in, he’d been stocking in the shelves on the opposite side of the room, so he didn’t see her walk in and sit down. He’d simply looked up when he got back to his desk and there she was, sitting as if she’d always been there, book open, reading in the sunlight. After that first day, she hasn’t missed one.

(And if sometimes he gets distracted from updating the online library catalog because the sunlight comes through the window at such an angle to make her blue eyes luminous, well then, no one notices but him.)

He’s never heard her speak. She always spends her time here in the library quietly, not talking to anyone, just sitting on her own reading and studying for two hours in the afternoon, two o’clock to four o’clock. He’s gotten a glimpse of the books she brings with her, never library owned, always her own textbooks, and he thinks she’s a psychology student. 

(She’s intelligent, as well as beautiful.)

She’s not young though. She’s certainly youthful, but not a freshman in college by any means. He wonders which degree she’s currently pursuing. A master’s or perhaps a PhD. 

(Either way, she’s probably out of his league.)

She is easily the highlight of his every day, his lonely quiet life is brightened by her coming to the library every day, even if she doesn’t know he exists. 

But today she’s late.

Red glances at his watch again. Quarter after two. She’s never this late. He wonders if she’s alright. Anything could have happened, she could have overslept, she could be having a late lunch, she could have gotten in an accident, she could have – 

All of a sudden, the door swings open and Red’s head whips around to look hopefully at the newcomer and there she is. Gently closing the door behind her and wandering past the circulation desk towards her regular table, with not a care in the world, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear as she goes.

Of course, Red thinks scathingly to himself. She’s not late, not to her. She can come and go here whenever she pleases and, as far as she knows, there’s isn’t a pathetic librarian waiting on pins and needles to see her every day at two o’clock on the nose.

(He’s bordering on creepy.)

Red watches as she takes her usual place at her usual table, just a few minutes later than her usual time. She opens her messenger bag and pulls out her books, stacking them on the table and slinging her bag on the back of her chair before she sits down with a sigh Red can hear across the library, settling down to study.

(He’s never seen an individual more dedicated to academia.)

Red manages to tear his eyes away from her gorgeous profile and, with a quiet sigh of his own, snatches the stack of science books that have been sitting on his desk since nine o’clock this morning, waiting to be re-stocked.

(Because if he puts aside the science books so he can shelve them while she’s here? 

Well, no one notices but him.)

* * *

It’s the middle of the next week when Red is unnecessarily re-organizing the physiology section, conveniently located just a shelf away from her table, when he hears a disturbance. It sounds like a hushed male voice, coming from the table by the window. Red frowns and quietly pushes aside a book on heart defects to peek through the resultant gap at the woman’s table, telling himself he’s checking up on the clientele of the library, not creepily spying on a gorgeous woman.

He sees a man hovering over the very table Red has been watching from a distance for months, speaking quietly but insistently to the woman sitting there. Red’s heart sinks into his stomach. The man is fairly young, probably around the woman’s age, with shocks of premature grey and white through his otherwise dark hair, wearing blue scrubs.

Great. A doctor. 

Red sighs, feeling worthless and dejected. There’s no way the woman would be even somewhat interested in him when she has a handsome doctor sniffing around. He begins to push the books back into place on the shelf, promising himself to never get attached to pretty library patrons again, when he hears something that makes him pause.

“Really, Nik, I’m very flattered, but a no is a no.”

That’s her voice, it must be, trying to get rid of the doctor. 

(Her voice is even more beautiful than Red imagined.)

“Aw, come on, Liz, you don’t mean that. Just let me buy you a drink, you’ll change your mind, I promise.”

And the doctor is bothering her. 

_No._

Red wastes no time in emerging from between the shelves, two encyclopedias on the human genome under his arm, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

“Excuse me, sir,” he interrupts another pathetic plea for the woman – Liz, he thinks with a thrill – to go out with him. “This is the silent reading section.”

Both Nik and Liz look up at him in surprise, though Red can see irritation on the man’s face and a little relief on the woman’s. 

(He’s doing the right thing.)

“Oh, sorry, man, we’re just having a chat here,” the dismissal in his voice is clear and the fake smile Nik flashes to him makes Red’s lip curl. 

“Yes, I can see that, sir, and that’s precisely the point. You’re beginning to disturb the other patrons.” 

Not true, of course. The only person at a table within hearing distance has headphones on. Nik notices.

“Look, man, just let me –”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Red can see the man get frustrated, anger flashing in his eyes, but Red stands his ground, staring him down and squaring his shoulders, trying to use his solid form to be imposing. Nik huffs for a long moment before visibly giving up, casting one last glance down to the quiet woman at the table.

“Whatever. I’ll see you around, Liz.”

And he turns to leave, striding past Red angrily, muttering under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like “not worth it anyway” and Red has to stop himself from hurling an encyclopedia at the back of his head.

(There isn’t a fictional universe in any of the books in this library in which Lizzie wouldn’t be completely and utterly “worth it”.)

Red stares after Nik, making sure he leaves, watching as he pulls the door shut behind him with a little more force than necessary, before Red feels himself relax. 

Good riddance.

But he tenses up again the moment he turns and finds Lizzie looking at him curiously, her piercing blue eyes staring right at him. He lowers his head out of instinct, trying to hide behind his glasses. What if she didn’t want him to do that, what if she’s mad, what if – 

“Thank you.”

Red looks up in surprise to meet her grateful gaze, her blue eyes warm and a kind smile on her face, looking at him with interest.

(She’s so beautiful.)

The only thing Red can do is nod quickly, barely managing to pry his dry mouth open to say two words to her. 

“You’re welcome.”

And he manages to return her smile – he thinks – before he turns on his heel, hefting the two encyclopedias in his arms and hurrying back to the relative safety of his circulation desk, his heart hammering. 

(She noticed him.)

* * *

It’s the end of the next week, at a quarter to four on Friday, that something even more amazing happens.

Red is slumped at his desk, his eyes glazed over as he mindlessly scrolls through the library catalog, trying to bring himself to enter the shipment of new atlases they just received, when he suddenly feels a shadow fall over him. He straightens up instinctively, quickly smoothing down his tie before looking up at the person standing in front of his desk. And his heart nearly stops. 

It’s her.

There she is, in all her glory, her long dark hair framing her pale face, a portion held back out of her eyes by a small clip, her blue eyes peering at him with a faint, pleasant smile on her face. She’s wearing a soft-looking grey sweater and comfy-looking worn jeans, her bag slung over her shoulder and a book in her hands.

And he’s staring stupidly at her as she gazes at him. 

She doesn’t seem to mind his stupor, particularly. At least, she doesn’t look too worried for his sanity. She’s simply looking back at him, an expression on her face that is intriguing, in some back recess of his mind. 

(If he didn’t know better, he’d think she looked mildly interested in him. But that’s not possible.)

After a long moment, she finally opens her mouth to speak.

“Hi.”

Red blinks, the single word, though very gentle and quiet, still manages to shock him, sending his heart racing in his chest. He pries his mouth open to parrot the word back at her. 

“Hi.”

There, he answered back, now it’s her turn to talk. That’s how conversation works, right? But she’s still staring at him and he feels the back of his neck getting warm. Why is she still staring, what did he do, has she come to her senses about last week, is she angry with him? No, she doesn’t look angry, she looks kind of interested, but she’s not, so what could she possibly want, he doesn’t –

“I’d like to check this out, please.”

And she places the book she’s holding very gently on his desk, cover facing up, in a quiet, polite request.

Oh. She wants him to do his job. Obviously.

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry!”

Red leaps into action, snatching the book off the counter, hurriedly jiggling his mouse to wake up his computer, shoving the book under the scanner and waiting for it to beep, all the while avoiding eye contact with the woman he’s been shyly staring at over the rims of his dark-framed glasses for what feels like forever. 

(This feels like a dream.)

“Hey, Liz!”

And she’s turning at the soft call of another woman from across the library, leaving Red alone for a moment while he checks out her book.

“Hi, Samar! How is…”

Her voice fades as she takes a few steps away from the circulation desk to meet the dark-skinned woman and Red is left at his desk feeling cold from the loss of her. He mechanically reaches for the stamper and ink pad to leave the due date on the card in the back of the book, listening to the receipt stutter out of the old printer at a snail’s pace. But, while he’s doing that, in his mind’s eye he’s seeing her looking at him, that strange look that he could have sworn was intrigue. What if she – 

Hm. Should he? 

He glances over at Lizzie, still talking to her friend, waving her hands animatedly in hushed conversation. He would never ordinarily presume but there’s something about her eyes that…well, maybe he should be brave for once. 

(And if this fails horribly, well, no one will notice but him.)

So, he is spurred back into action, ripping her receipt off at the perforation and looking around frantically for a pen, spying one lying between a thesaurus he was reading this morning out of sheer boredom and his half-eaten chicken salad sandwich from lunch. He snatches up the pen and flattens her receipt on his desk, taking a fortifying breath before leaning forward to write. 

(Oh, god, what is he doing?)

He scrawls his name and number at the top of the tiny paper. 

“Okay, I’ll see you on Sunday!”

His head whips around in panic as he sees Lizzie waving goodbye to her friend and heading back to the circulation desk. His heart rises to his throat and he turns back to the receipt, frowning at what he wrote there.

_Raymond  
958-8041_

Wait, what if she doesn’t know his name? He wears a nametag every day but what if she just hasn’t looked? What if – 

Oh no, she’s almost here. Red only has a second. He mentally throws caution to the wind and hastily scribbles the words “the librarian” in parenthesis next to his name before shoving the receipt in the back of the book and snapping it shut just as she stops in front of him. 

“Sorry about that,” she says pleasantly. “I had to talk to my friend really quickly. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

(How are her eyes so blue?)

“No, not at all,” Red stammers, feeling very aware of odd parts of his body, like his eyebrows and his pinky fingers. Do they always feel like that? “I just finished up actually.” He places her book back on the counter for her. “It’s due back in two weeks.”

“Thanks so much,” she chirps, taking the book and holding it close to her.

(He would bet all the money in the world that she never mistreats her library books.)

“Well, bye, then,” she says pleasantly, after a moment. She sounds a little wistful, as if maybe she was waiting for something else from him. 

(Is he making all this up?)

But she’s turning away to leave and it’s now or never. 

“Uh, your receipt is in the back,” he calls after her, trying not to choke on his own words as he says them.

She turns and looks at him, that curiosity back in her eyes at his odd exclamation. 

“Uh, okay, thanks,” she says, a little confusion evident in her tone but she gives him one last tiny smile before she turns and leaves.

Red lets out a breath he doesn’t know how long he was holding when the door finally swings shut behind her. Well. Either she’ll see it, or she won’t. And he won’t know which it is until Monday. 

It’s going to be a long weekend.

* * *

Red doesn’t get much sleep over the next two days and certainly no real meals. Mostly just black coffee and microwave dinners because he’s too nervous to stomach anything more substantial. He’s spends the majority of his time pretending to get work done around his apartment, while he’s really just staring at his cell phone out of the corner of his eye. He tries not to be too conspicuous about it, even though there’s no one around to judge him for being this pathetic. He leaves his phone sitting on a table or chair when he moves to another room, just to prove a point to himself that he can get by without the raging insecurity and fear that he will miss her call. 

(And if he turns up the ringer before he leaves a room, no one is there to notice but him.)

But the whole weekend passes with no call and he tries not to feel discouraged. It’s completely possible that she just hasn’t looked in the back of the book and found the receipt yet. It also could have fallen out on her way home and is currently lying in some gutter with his peace of mind. Or she could be so completely thrilled with the fact that he’s given her seven meaningless letters and digits that she’s waiting to see him in person next week to throw herself into his arms in complete and utter joy.

(He knows the first two are more likely.)

He’s grateful when the weekend finally comes to an end and, with butterflies in his stomach, he unlocks the library early on Monday morning, unable to stay holed up in his tiny apartment any longer, his cell phone seeming to ominously grow in size on the kitchen table.

(It’s only the thought of hearing her beautiful voice on the other end that keeps him from throwing the damn thing out the window.)

The library itself doesn’t open for another half an hour so busies himself tidying up and shelving the new shipment of books he took home that weekend to catalogue. He’s just sitting back down at his desk, starting the process of turning on his ancient computer, when he hears the door open with the first patron of the week. 

He glances at his watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. Hm, must be eager.

Red is just signing in and opening up the check-out program when he hears a familiar voice sound in front of his desk.

“Hi.”

He freezes in place, his eyes staring widely at his computer screen. 

It’s her. 

He slowly turns in his swivel chair, spinning to look up at her for the second time in twice as many days.

(She’s still stunning.)

“H-hi,” he stammers, actually stuttering out the two-letter word, how sad. 

And he sees her mouth twitch at one corner, as if to smother a giggle and if a meteor was to come down at this precise moment and leave a crater where he is currently sitting, he’d be fine with that.

(He is certain no one would notice but him.)

He clears his throat and tries again. 

“Can I help you?” his voice sounds a little stronger now and at least he didn’t stutter again. It’s an improvement.

With her eyes still dancing in barely suppressed amusement, she nods at him. “Yes, I’d like to return this.”

And his heart descends rapidly through his chest to the bottom of his stomach because she’s putting the book she checked out last Friday on the counter in front of him.

And the receipt is sitting on top with his name and number, in that damning red ink, glaring up at him.

(Where the hell is that meteor?)

And this is so much worse than he could have possibly imagined, he thought he could take the rejection. Yes, his pride may be slightly bruised but that’s nothing that can’t heal, like it has done so many times before, but no. Not with her. Because there’s something about her, something he sees in her, that makes him feel as though he should be with her always. Otherwise, it’s just not right.

(And seeing that receipt back on his desk, that unmistakable sign of rejection, feels weirdly as though he’s lost something precious, something he’s never truly had.)

He can feel his face getting red as he stares at the receipt, feeling stupid, so, so stupid, and he ducks his head, reaching up to take the book and the ridiculous slip of paper sitting on top.

“Of course, I’m sorry, just let me –”

And then he nearly jumps out of his skin, his heart flying back into his throat, because something warm touches his hand. He looks up, startled, and it’s her, one pale, slender hand gently covering one of large, tan ones, stopping him in his tracks.

Red looks up at her, confused, and sees the kindness in her blue eyes, warm and happy. 

(What is she doing?)

“Flip it over.”

He frowns as she removes her hand, nodding encouragingly at the receipt and he slowly reaches out to turn it over and sees – 

_Elizabeth  
916-7801_

And his heart takes off, perhaps somewhere in his mouth now, beating hard and fast. Her name, her number. Both there, in neat blue font, easily the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. He looks up at her, beaming.

“Oh,” he breathes, and it sounds like a happy sigh.

She giggles, the sound quiet and delicate in the empty library. “I do want to return that book though,” she quips, and he laughs, nodding as he tosses the book carelessly onto his desk, the first in his daily pile of books to check back into the system.

He’ll do it later.

(No one will notice but him.)

“So, you thought I wouldn’t like you?” she asks curiously after a moment, leaning forward to place her elbows on the counter and rest her chin in her hand. He looks at her in wonder. 

(Is this really happening?)

“Well, yeah,” he mutters, managing to tear his gaze away from her and rub the back of his neck awkwardly. “Giving you my number was a spur of the moment thing and honestly pretty risky. I was afraid it was kind of out of the blue.”

“Oh, not to me,” she says earnestly, shaking her head. “I’ve been checking you out for weeks, haven’t you noticed?”

He blinks stupidly at her. She’s been what?

“In fact, I thought _that_ –” she nods at the receipt “– was a little overdue.”

And he’s smiling now, not necessarily because he understands her – because why on Earth would she like him? – but because she looks so pleased with herself at her library puns, clearing prepared and bursting from her as she struggles to smother her giggles.

“And how long have you been working on those?” he asks, trying to hold back his own chuckles. 

“Oh, a few days, you know, just in case I had to ask you out myself. Wanted to try and impress you with my knowledge of library jargon,” and she barely makes it through the end of her sentence before she finally gives in, her shoulders shaking in a beautiful, ringing laugh. He has to sit and watch her for a moment.

“Well, color me impressed,” he says cheekily, when she’s quieted, grinning at her. “Now, would you like to share any more or can we go ahead and schedule a date now?”

Liz smiles blindingly at him. “Friday?”

Red feels his face nearly burst in two with his answering grin. “Friday.” 

She nods, and pushes off the desk, heading to the front door. He misses her immediately.

(Friday seems so far away.)

“Oh, and maybe don’t make any plans for Saturday,” she’s calling back to him all of a sudden and his eyebrows are raising on his forehead in surprise.

“Uh, why?” he manages to call back, his voice maybe a little squeakier than he would have liked.

“Because I might want to renew you,” she says easily, and he can hear the laughter in her voice. “And, come Monday, you might even have to charge me a late fee.”

He’s still laughing when the door closes behind her.

* * *

(And when he tells her he loves her, no one notices but her. 

And that’s enough for Red.)


	10. Chapter 10

**35\. one of them trying to get the other one off of drugs au**

“Red, no, you can’t.”

“Lizzie, please, I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Red, you’ve worked so hard to get clean, you can’t do this now.”

“Lizzie, the last thing I want to do is disappoint you, but I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

“Red, you are strong enough. Don’t relapse now, not after all this time.”

“Lizzie, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I just can’t resist.”

And he’s taking her hand and tugging her off the cobblestoned streets of Paris and into the quaint patisserie, following the irresistibly decadent smells of freshly-brewed coffee and still-warm pastry straight from the oven, ignorant of her loud giggles and playful shrieks.

“I hope you’re hungry, Lizzie, because I haven’t had caffeine in three and a half weeks and one simply can’t drink coffee without pastries in France! What shall we order, bear claws? Sticky buns? Danishes? Oh, how about those –”

And Lizzie follows him inside with nary a protest because as hopelessly addicted to coffee as he is?

She’s just as addicted to him.


End file.
